Though This Be Madness
by DovieLR
Summary: After a sixth year prank, Dumbledore is determined to watch Snape for any ill effects. For all his apparent wisdom, however, not even he could have foreseen the extent of those effects. Spoilers ahoy, and AU after HBP.
1. Descent

Though this be madness, yet there is a method in't. — _Hamlet_, Act II, Scene 2

**Descent**

Boys will be boys. Isn't that what they always say?

Of course, that is little consolation when the first boy is a werewolf one is trying to protect, the second a hapless victim, and the third threw the others together during the full moon as "just a bit of a joke."

I am convinced deep within myself that Sirius did not expect any real harm to befall Severus—and of course no physical harm has—but I never thought their mutual dislike would have escalated to this point. Not that Sirius would hesitate to harm Severus given the opportunity, or vice versa. They have both shown they are not above a well-placed curse at an opportune moment. No, it is that Sirius would try to hurt Severus at Remus' expense that perplexes me. Then again, he has always been a bit rash, and even more so when he is excited by the chase.

I suppose I should have seen this coming, after the spectacle James and Sirius made of Severus last term following their Defence OWL. My arrival on the scene was the only thing that kept James from removing Severus' underpants for all the world to see, I am sure. With that act, James had upped the stakes quite a bit. Little wonder Sirius did something so outlandish: he was trying to compete. And it appears that Remus has less influence over his friends than I had hoped.

Perhaps I am slowing up. That tends to happen when one passes the century mark, or so I'm told. Since I have now logged one and a quarter centuries, I am feeling my age. Or it could be the war. Young Mr Riddle is beginning to show quite the aptitude for spreading discord.

Normally I find that hot chocolate clears my head, yet tonight my mug remains full of the beverage, now tepid with distraction. I fancy I could have drunk gallons upon gallons and still have no more conception than before of how this might have happened. I may need to get myself a Pensieve. I have heard that they help immensely in these types of situations.

I have handled this all so poorly, and Severus must think me the most ruthless tyrant imaginable. After all he has been through tonight, I told him in no uncertain terms that he cannot tell anyone Remus is a werewolf. Imagine that: forcing him to keep the secret of someone he now considers a monster. But I also tried to make it clear that he could come to me to talk about this, or anything else, any time he felt the need. I hope he will take me up on the offer, although I suspect he will not. He keeps too much inside—far too much for a boy his age.

That I have failed him is painfully obvious, as it always is when a student is brought to one's office stinking of his own urine. Between the staff, the portraits, and the ghosts, little that transpires at this school escapes my notice, so why did I not see this until it was too late? Have I been so very blind? If so, then no more. I shall have to watch Severus carefully for any lingering effects of tonight's events. Such things almost always have unforeseen consequences.

~*~*~#~*~*~

I ought to have known better. Whenever Gryffindors are involved, the stench of rat hangs heavy in the air. Something about Lupin's frequent "illnesses" intrigued me, however, and if solving the puzzle meant uncovering grounds to get them all expelled, all to the good. Therefore I was much too anxious to listen to Black. I ought to have known better.

Now I know the answer, I cannot imagine why I didn't see it before. I'm the top of my Dark Arts class and always have been. We learnt about werewolves in third year. Why didn't I work this out before now? Why didn't I at least plot Lupin's illnesses on a calendar? Instead I had to take a jaunt down into that tunnel under the Whomping Willow at Black's command. I ought to have known better.

"Idiot boy! His marks are abominable. They'll probably throw him out of that voodoo school any day now."

I even decided to forego my monthly trip to see my mother at St Mungo's to stay behind and visit Lupin—or should I say the beast he becomes? Not that Mother noticed my absence. She never even notices my presence, though I should hardly expect that she'll suddenly become chatty one day.

"With that spotty complexion and greasy hair ... I ought to throw him in the shower and scrub his skin raw."

Mother may not be good company any longer, but at least she doesn't haunt me as Father does. I was never good enough when he was alive, so I'm not surprised that he continues to criticise me after death, continually enumerating my lamentable inadequacies to my mother's unhearing ears.

Cliodna jumps into my lap, her purring even louder than the crackling logs in the hearth. Up on her back legs she goes, planting her front paws against my chest. After rubbing her cheeks against mine in greeting, she gives my nose a rough-tongued lick and settles into my lap. Her paws knit against my legs whilst she tries to find a comfortable position. I welcome the sting of needle-sharp claws puncturing my thighs through my robes. In my present world—comprised largely of unknowns—at least this pain is familiar.

Father has gone now. Cliodna frightens him, I think. She can apparently see the invisible ghosts that wizards cannot. Many times I've noticed her shooting a pointed glance at an unoccupied corner of the room, sensing something the rest of us don't. And if her presence means Father's departure, all the better.

She purrs and arches into my palm, occasionally looking up at me with half-closed silver eyes. We sit there, simply taking comfort in each other's company for the longest time. Even if everyone else has failed me and everything else in my wretched life proves an illusion, at least I have Cliodna. That's how it's always been. When Ophelia died, this little black kitten—then easily small enough to fit into my cupped hands—helped me cope with my grief, and she'll help me through this, as well. I know she will.

"Good kitty," I murmur, stroking her back and staring into the fire. "What would I ever do without you?"

~*~*~#~*~*~

Alastor would chastise me most vehemently for dozing in my office, I fancy. Though not conducive to constant vigilance, I find catnaps something of a necessity these days. Thankfully I never sleep too long, since the powerful racket of my own snoring often startles me awake. When it does this time, I hear something I dread even more: a rattling inhalation. My office, however, is neither cold nor dark. Another sound—the slow drip, drip, drip of otherworldly blood staining the floor—soon catches my attention. The Bloody Baron has come to call. I sit up slowly and readjust my spectacles.

As the portraits of former Heads in my office are bound to serve the current Headmaster, so must the ghosts do my bidding. One would never know that if one only judged by a certain poltergeist who attempts to get around his responsibilities at every opportunity, but it is nevertheless true.

I prefer to save the ghosts' services for the most dire of circumstances, so I rarely ask them for favours. It is not every day that one of them seeks me out, and the Bloody Baron, gaunt face staring down at me, is normally loath to announce his presence. He is a man of few words. When he does speak, only a great fool would be reluctant to listen. I like to think that I am not a great fool, so I nod in greeting and smile.

"How may I help your Excellency this fine afternoon?"

"I have come about one of the students," he rasps.

The baron's voice sounds like nails on an emery board, with an underlying clatter reminiscent of a dementor, possibly due to the many stab wounds through his lungs. Only with great determination can I suppress a wince. My mind immediately jumps to Severus, of course, and I fear the cold chill that washes over me has nothing to do with being in the company of a ghost. Is this what I have been dreading? I swallow hard.

"Has something happened?" I ask, willing my voice not to tremble, and I succeed for the most part.

He shakes his head slowly, vacant eyes softening. "Nothing urgent, but I thought you should be made aware."

My trepidation subsiding, I recline in my chair, resting my elbows on the arms and pressing my fingertips together. "Please continue."

The Bloody Baron takes an unneeded breath and nods.

"Snape. The boy has been sitting alone in a chair by the common room fire every night for the past few evenings in a bizarre pose—with one shoulder raised much higher than the other. He is there for hours on end, not speaking with anyone and not seeming to hear them when they speak to him. And he was petting his cat, talking to her exactly the way he used to."

My eyebrows rise. "The way he used to?"

"His cat has been dead and buried for over a year now, Dumbledore."

My head drops of its own accord as I regard the Bloody Baron over the top of my spectacles. Up until now, I had been puzzled as to why he would see fit to make this nondescript report. The posture is strange, no doubt, but not unduly distressing. And Severus has always been something of a loner, so his not speaking to others is quite understandable, especially after what he has recently endured. Furthermore, many Hogwarts students take solace in stroking their pets during stressful times—but usually only when those pets are still alive.

I cannot be sure, but I think I sit in silence for over a full minute. Something is definitely wrong with Severus, then. Clearly I will need to speak with him. I briefly wonder if the invitation I wish to extend would be better coming from the Slytherin ghost or his Head of House. Well, the answer is obvious. Were Professor Slughorn to tell Severus to come to my office, the request would carry the weight of a command. I do wish to speak to him, but I do not want him to feel pressured.

"Might I trouble your Excellency to tell Severus that I would like to see him? At his earliest convenience, of course."

The baron nods once, turns, and glides from the room. Although this is a Hogsmeade weekend, a timid, irregular knock sounds at the door barely half an hour later.

"Come in!" I call, already affixing a warm smile to my face.

Severus enters, staring at the floor, and walks toward the chair in front of my desk. "Walks," however, hardly seems proper to describe his movements. His flat-footed steps appear to require great effort, as if his feet are mired in a peat bog, and when he pulls one free, the tremors reverberate throughout his entire body. When did his gait become so twitchy, I wonder? He never walked that way as a first year. The transformation must have been a series of infinitesimal changes for me not to have noticed before now. Finally he reaches his destination and sinks down in the chair, shoulders slumped and avoiding my eyes.

"How have you been feeling, Severus?" I begin with an encouraging smile.

"I haven't told anybody, Headmaster," he mumbles in a slow monotone, whilst staring at his lap. "About Lupin, I mean. I haven't—"

My smile has faded, and I hope against hope that this is not the reason he broke off. I did not want this summons to make the poor boy think he was in some sort of trouble, but how very wrong I was. The message "The headmaster wishes to see you," however congenial the delivery, apparently carries ineffable gravity to a sixteen-year-old.

I stand and walk around the desk, where I sit on the edge. "I know you haven't, m'boy," I say gently. "I trust you."

Severus grimaces after I've said this, as if he is experiencing great physical pain or perhaps trying not to cry. I cannot tell for certain which. But no sooner do I reach out to place a comforting hand on his shoulder and ask what is the matter than the expression passes away—as suddenly as it came—leaving his face utterly blank. I therefore draw my hand back, enfolding it with its mirror image in my lap.

Now I am closer, I also notice Severus' hands. They twitch and jerk, and he rubs them together as if trying to wipe something off his skin. He is evidently very nervous. The largest downside of being a terribly powerful wizard is one tends to intimidate those one least wishes to, including those one wants nothing more than to help. I fight down a sigh with some difficulty and force another smile.

"How have you been sleeping? Any nightmares?"

He only smiles and chuckles softly, which I take as a negative. After a long moment of silence, he adds, "I used to sleep with a cat fur blanket."

Again my eyebrows rise. The phrase "a cat fur blanket" means nothing to me, but admittedly I am bit of an old codger and am therefore frequently behind the times. At least I think that is what he said. I may not have heard him correctly. Perhaps he meant "a cat for a blanket." That makes little more sense, I will admit, but that statement would be more probable physically, if not logically. Regardless, I think I will have Madam Pomfrey check my hearing again. Severus continues to smile when he tells me a moment later that his cat has died.

"Yes, I heard. I am very sorry, Severus."

"Old cat, Cliodna." He shrugs and smiles still, which unnerves me, I must admit. From the Bloody Baron's description earlier, he appeared to have been quite fond of his pet ... at least at one time.

"And how are your lessons?"

The eerie, out-of-the-proper-context smile fades from his face then. "Don't like History of Magical Creatures."

History of Magic and Care of Magical Creatures are, of course, two entirely different classes, with separate professors and scopes. The pupils, however, often have some very creative names for these two largely unpopular classes. Impertinent fellow that he has always been, Severus would be no exception I expect, so I pay the moniker no undue mind.

"Is there any particular reason you did not go to Hogsmeade with the other students today?"

Now he laughs, but other than that, he does not answer. Nor does his face reflect even the tiniest hint of mirth. I shouldn't be surprised, and I suppose that question was somewhat insensitive of me. Why should he wish to go to Hogsmeade? I doubt he feels much like socialising these days.

"Very well, Severus," I say finally, although my forehead can but contract into a worried frown. "You may go. But do feel free to drop by any time you wish to talk. My door is always open."

He nods, still avoiding my gaze, and then rises from the chair. Again he twitches from the room. After he has closed the door, I sink back into my chair with a heavy sigh. I have seen a similar melancholy in children his age more often than I care to remember, but I do not believe the boy was being intentionally uncommunicative. Something in me yearns so badly to have him open up to me, to tell me all his fears and worries. If only I could get through to him that he can, in fact, trust me.

Instead of our short interview's easing my mind, I am only more anxious than before. His manner does not sit well with me ... rather like a heavy but wholly unsatisfying meal.

~*~*~#~*~*~

"MISTERRRRR SNAPE!"

The old prune is in my face, red from forehead to neck. Though I sit rigid with my wand poised, the guinea hen is gone from my desk, not having been turned into a guinea pig.

Cross-Species Switches. Yes, yes, yes.

I thought when I'd failed to scrape an acceptable OWL that I'd be done with this rubbish. Those with parental permission can forego repeating classes, of course, and those who are of legal age can choose not to, as well. But as I'm still only sixteen and my parents cannot consent to anything, I have to take Transfiguration again—with fourth-years, no less. I don't even enjoy my Potions and Dark Arts lessons the way I used to. Why should I give a damn about this? At least I'll be seventeen next month. Then next term I can leave both McGonagall and Trans-fucking-figuration far behind.

"Would it be too much trrrouble for you to concentrate on the lesson, Misterrr Snape?"

She's been trying to get my attention for a while now, I think. But that spot on the blackboard was much too fascinating to be bothered with looking away. Now she's stopped screeching—and demonstrating just how long any good Scotswoman can draw out a word with an R in it—blood recedes from the ruddy skin. Her pinched nostrils glow against the red, like lighthouses in a harbour of gore. Even with a shoreline made entirely of coal, the emeralds are out of place. That strikes me as quite amusing, so I laugh. And laugh. And laugh. But it doesn't sound like me.

McGonagall doesn't know what to think, I can tell. She blanches, making the emeralds stand out even more. I laugh harder. They're all staring at me now. I see it, I feel it, I smell it, even. I can smell their putrid eyes fixed on me. Or is that smell coming from McGonagall? From the rotting harbour in her face?

Finally my muscles melt, and I can move again. I set down my wand on the desk in front of me, and the smell grows suddenly sharper. Is that stench coming from my hands? I raise them to my nose and sniff, happy to have pinpointed the source of the odour, even if my stomach turns in the process. Can McGonagall smell it, too? Is that why she looks queasy? No one else can usually smell what I smell...

The thin lips move again, but I can't make out what she's saying. All I hear is the constant droning of my father's criticisms and my own breathing as I inhale and expel repeated gulps of foetid air. I didn't have Potions today, so why do my hands reek so? Or did I have Potions, and I just don't remember? I'm both fascinated and repulsed by the smell, so familiar and yet so disgusting, and I drink it in though I am about to gag.

"He can't fall back on his good looks and charm to get ahead. Hideous and can't talk to people, that one."

"Go away!" I hiss behind my hands at my father's commentary. "Can't you see I'm busy right now?"

Harbour-face inhales sharply as though I've slapped her. "Well." Her breath comes in short bursts, as if she might just explode. That would be a treat to see, I must admit. "You'll have plenty of time to think about your priorities tonight during detention."

The bell thunders in my ears. Transfiguration is my last lesson of the day ... or at least I think so. Do I have Potions today? Since I've no other class to hurry off to, this tower of ruddy-faced, white-nostrilled fury can now scream at her leisure. I might be amused, if I cared. When she's thoroughly exhausted her supply of invectives, or her voice—I can't be arsed to care about that, either—she presses her lips into a thin white line and points toward the door.

All I've managed to take away from her little lecture is that my detention will be with Madam Pomfrey immediately after I've finished my supper.

But I can't finish my supper. I can't even start eating. I sit at the table, arms folded over my chest, and stare at my plate. Someone's poisoned my food. Probably those damned Gryffindors again. I'm not surprised. They're jealous. They know I'm the One, and they're afraid of me. As well they should be.

~*~*~#~*~*~

I survey my deputy headmistress over the tips of my fingers where I have them pressed together. Minerva is clearly upset.

"You should have seen him! I called his name for no less than ten minutes, and he simply stared at me. Not even at me—through me! When he finally deigned to respond, he just sat there, smelling his hands, of all things. So I asked him if there was something wrong, and he had the nerve to tell me to go away because he was busy!"

Severus has always been insolent, but I suspect smiling at my colleague's obvious distress would serve no constructive purpose at this precise moment. My lips do twitch, but for the most part I succeed in keeping my face blank as I move my index fingers away from my mouth enough to speak.

"And what did you do?"

She exhales loudly, her shoulders dropping. "I gave him a detention."

Now resisting the urge to sigh is difficult, and Minerva has known me long enough to see that in my face. I will not pretend for a moment that Severus has ever been her favourite student, but I remind myself how she demanded most adamantly that Sirius be expelled after that awful prank. Bless her, she can certainly be overzealous at times, but I am sure she has the boy's best interests at heart, even if she cannot always keep that Celtic temper in check.

"Well, I was angry, Albus," she explains, to my expression as much as anything I might say. "But somehow I didn't think he was intentionally ignoring me this time. And talking to Poppy only confirmed that."

I nod and turn my gaze expectantly to Madam Pomfrey.

"He arrived twenty minutes earlier than I'd expected for his detention," she says, "and so I set him to scrubbing bed pans, whilst I went to my office to measure out some doses of potions. And I heard him at it for a bit, but then the scrubbing sounds stopped, although the water was still running. I knew he couldn't have been done so soon unless he'd used magic, so I went back in to scold him ... and..." She wrings her hands, biting her lip. "He was just standing there at the sink, staring at the wall. He had the pan in one hand and the brush in the other, but he was as still as death, even with the water spilling out of this filthy bed pan and all down his front."

I nod slowly as I process this information. Severus could never have been accused of being normal, I daresay. He has always been unpopular—even from his first year, and as such he has always been the object of ridicule. I cannot imagine that he would go out of his way to attract more unwanted attention, as these episodes seem to indicate.

This is far worse than I had feared. Something more than mere melancholia must have the boy in its grip. My first thought is instinctively that Riddle is somehow possessing him, but I quickly dismiss the notion. Surely that is not possible with all the protections on the school grounds. My thoughts have been dwelling on Tom Riddle a troubling amount these days.

I take a deep breath, and now I do sigh. "Poppy, have you any reason to believe that Severus might pose a danger to anyone—including himself?"

Madam Pomfrey frowns and thinks for a moment, but at last she shakes her head. "I can't imagine how catatonia alone might injure anyone, Headmaster, but..." She trails off with a worrisome exhalation.

"But?" I prompt, my eyebrows rising.

"Perhaps the staff should keep an eye on him especially." She casts a sidelong glance at Minerva, as if afraid to voice the root of her anxiety. Her concern for Severus seems to win out in the end, however, because she squares her shoulders and continues. "I shudder to think what might befall the boy if ... well, if certain students—were to happen upon him—in a vulnerable state."

Poppy rushes through the last bit of her statement, and Minerva stiffens visibly at the implications. As rabidly protective as she is of her Gryffindors, she cannot deny that some amongst their number have recently shown themselves quite capable of premeditated viciousness. And so she nods.

As do I. "Exactly what I was thinking, Poppy. And I was about to suggest the same course of action myself. In fact..."

I reach across my desk and pull the calendar toward me to make doubly sure I have no pressing appointments scheduled for this afternoon. Only a meeting with the Minister of Magic at half-past three, but I am sure that under the circumstances Madam Bagnold will understand if I am a bit tardy. I retrieve a scrap of parchment and my quill to scribble a note.

"I think I should call an emergency meeting of the staff as soon as possible to apprise them of the situation. Would you see that they are all informed, please, Professor?"

Minerva nods again and walks briskly from the office. When I have completed my explanations, I beckon to Fawkes, whose claws scrabble in a rather ungainly landing on my desk. Madam Pomfrey winces at the sound. The promise of an emergency staff meeting has evidently not laid all her fears to rest.

"We'll see that Severus is well taken care of," I tell her, attempting to reassure her as I attach the piece of parchment to my phoenix's leg. Fawkes then disappears in a puff of smoke.

Poppy gives me an uncertain nod, but she heads for the door—still wringing her hands. At the ensuing staff meeting, I simply state that I have some concerns about Severus Snape, and I would appreciate it if the staff would note any unusual behaviour he might demonstrate. Now all I can do is wait for the next regular meeting in two weeks. I have spent far too much time waiting lately.


	2. Dementia

[T]here is nothing either good / or bad but thinking makes it so. — _Hamlet_, Act II, Scene 2

**Dementia**

I've always hated showering at Hogwarts. That's no secret. Without fail the other boys would stare at my skinny legs and protruding ribs and scrawny hips. I know they were watching, gawking, hearing my embarrassment. And I always found excuses to shower late at night when they were all asleep. I'd forget occasionally, when absorbed in a particularly fascinating Potions or Dark Arts experiment, but their sniffs soon reminded me.

I can't remember when I last bathed, so it's probably time again.

I wait until I can hear four sets of snores—amplified to the magnitude of stomping elephants—before I begin. Rosier, Lestrange, Wilkes, and Avery are all happily slumbering now, so I crawl out of bed and cross the dormitory to the showers. Before I light the torches, I close the door and stuff a towel into the gap so the glare won't wake them. The sudden eruption of light blinds me for a moment, but when I've acclimated, I undress and turn on the water.

I open my eyes after wetting my hair, and the room is darker—not pitch black as the dungeons usually are without light, but like dusk. Some of the torches must have died. When I turn around to see which ones, this—thing—launches itself at me, clawing hands outstretched. As much as I try to fight down the noise, I can't help screaming when it sinks its gleaming fingernails into my arms. At first I think it might be a veela, but the absence of a beak disproves that hypothesis. I know how to fend off a veela, but this is no Dark creature I've ever read about before.

It looks female: it has breasts but no nipples and no pubic hair—just a smooth mound of gold skin where the hair ought to be. In fact, it looks to have no hair anywhere except on top of its head. What's there is shiny silver, like a mirror, and it stands out stiffly from the scalp, almost as if it's being blown up by a non-existent wind. Though whatever this creature may be, the murderous intent in its silver eyes is unmistakable.

My wand is where I've left it by the lavatory. Fat lot of good it's going to do me across the room. So I grab the thing and try to pin her arms behind her back. A loud pop tells me I've dislocated something in the creature's body. Sure enough, her right arm now hangs limply, but that doesn't deter her in the slightest. I don't know how, but I manage to force her to the floor, and I close my hands 'round her throat, determined to kill or be killed.

The constant stream of water in her nose and mouth do not affect her, as she doesn't seem to need air. She merely struggles against my grasp, mirror-nails of her working arm wanting to scratch out my eyes. I lift her by the neck and pound her head against the stone tiles. The silver eyes go wide, so I do it again. And again. And again. Her hair breaks off in tiny shards, which melt when they touch the tiles, and she even bleeds silver, in a thick, glistening argent stream undiluted by the spraying water as it twists and turns and creeps toward the drain.

Whilst I'm trying to split open the creature's skull, I realise those damned Gryffindors must have sent this thing to attack me, just as they set Lupin on me. And then there they are at the door, proudly proclaiming their considerable guilt: Potter and Black and Lupin and Pettigrew, come to laugh at my terror. I don't know how they've got inside the Slytherin dormitories, but they laugh their heads off, pointing and taunting and calling me Snivellus.

When they reach me, the gold-silver creature disappears, but they still laugh. They still point and laugh. And I kick and bite and claw and punch to repel them. Get away from me, you Gryffindor bastards! Haven't you done enough?

I think I must have fainted, because the next thing I know, I'm in the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey tucks the blankets in snugly around my feet. I'm shivering, but I don't know why. The air all around me dances and shimmers from some unseen heat source. Shouldn't I be warm?

"Did somebody catch them?" I croak.

Madam Pomfrey starts at the question. When she turns to face me, she stares as if she has no idea what I've just said. I roll my eyes and try again, though my throat is sore and raw.

"Did someone catch Potter, Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew?" I pronounce slowly, as though speaking to someone especially thick. Thankfully I only have to stop once to swallow and catch my breath. "Or did they get away?"

Madam Pomfrey has never struck me as an idiot before, so why doesn't she understand plain English? She merely shakes her head, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"They sent something into the showers to attack me. I'm wondering if somebody's caught them this time."

As she approaches the head of the bed, she pulls the blankets up under my chin and then gives my shoulder a squeeze. "You've had a difficult night, Mr Snape. Don't try to talk. Save your strength. You need rest."

I glare at her.

You old cow! You hypocritical old cow! The last time you acted so bloody worried, and now you won't even listen! Why won't you help me? Don't let them get away with it a second time!

She backs away, a horrible look on her face.

Yes, I know you can hear me, Madam Pomfrey, so you tell those wretched Gryffindors that I'll get them for this. I'll have the last laugh. Slytherin is my strength, and I shall get them in the end.

"You shall, Ssseverusss," he whispers.

No one understands, my Lord.

"No one underssstandsss because you are ssspecial. Unique. And no one will ever underssstand you, excssept for me."

I want to turn on my side and pull my legs up to my chest, but I can't because I'm strapped to the bed. So I simply lie there, hot tears streaming from the corners of my eyes and trickling into my hair. At least Slytherin understands. For now, that must be enough to sustain me.

~*~*~#~*~*~

Finally the day of the much-anticipated staff meeting arrives. I sit through the usual squabbles regarding who is responsible for making certain the staffroom cupboards are fully stocked with coffee filters and scheduling next year's Quidditch matches and Hogsmeade weekends. I try my best not to fidget, but I must confess myself terribly worried about the boy. After Minerva has jotted down the agreed upon dates, I clear my throat to make certain I have my staff's undivided attention.

"Now on to the last order of business. Severus Snape: Has anyone noticed anything unusual in his behaviour during the past two weeks?"

They all start speaking at once, which I take as an affirmative, and I raise a hand to still their chatter. "One at a time, please."

Minerva nods at me from directly across the table, so I start with her.

"Professor McGonagall?"

"Well, not behaviour so much as ... aroma. My other students won't sit anywhere near him, as he refuses to bathe."

"How can he be nearly seventeen and so completely helpless?" Professor Sprout chimes in, shaking her head.

"It's getting so bad, even I can smell him," Professor Binns wheezes. "And that is saying something."

I nod thoughtfully. "And problems other than a lack of hygiene?"

Professor Slughorn raises a finger to get my attention. Severus has always been one of Horace's best students, so naturally he would have observed the boy more closely than the other staff. And I gather from his frown, and the way he twists the whiskers of his moustache, that his report is not promising.

"His brewing has been suffering for some time now, but I thought nothing of it until you asked us to observe him, as even exceptional OWL students sometimes have trouble with NEWT-level potions." He frowns again and wafts his fingers toward his nose. "The odours are confusing him, he says. Apparently he smells components he has not yet added and doesn't smell things he has added. But that is nothing compared to yesterday.

"First, he walked backwards into the dungeon, and then he rushed through brewing as though his life depended on finishing early. I haven't seen him so active in weeks. He even sliced open his palm in his haste because he didn't realise he was holding his knife upside down." Horace then gives a helpless shrug. "Severus has always been very methodical and almost overly concerned with safety. I'm worried he might hurt himself badly one of these days."

Another of my staff then gives an indignant sniff, and my eyebrows rise.

"You have something to add, Bartemius?" I ask, once I have divined from whom the noise emerged.

"No more than he deserves," Professor Crouch says with a dismissive wave. The indifference in his voice is betrayed only by the maniacal glint in his eyes. "Too much dabbling in the Dark Arts has finally driven him over the edge."

"Bartemius, that is decidedly not helpful. And I should appreciate it if, for future staff meetings, you would leave your personal distaste for your pupils at the door."

I then arrange my face into a benign expression, but Professor Crouch does not miss my warning tone. As fervent as he has always been in his quest against the Dark Arts, he quickly rises to my challenge, leaning forward and placing both palms flat on the table—all the better to glower at me. If looks could kill, I fear I would have nothing to look forward to apart from fertilising flowers.

"That's easy for you to say, Dumbledore," he hisses. "You don't know that boy and his penchant for the Dark Arts. You haven't watched him repeatedly cursing other students. You didn't see him last night, blasting holes in the ceiling of his dormitory, fully convinced that he was shooting down flies."

Despite their mutual dislike, I am most interested in what Bartemius has to say, and his account is every bit as telling as Professor Slughorn's: Severus appears to be having visual hallucinations in addition to olfactory ones, and it is probably safe to assume that he may be hearing things, as well. Professor Crouch has unwittingly helped me uncover another piece of the puzzle, and I am sure he does not care for the satisfied look on my face at all.

"And have you seen anything else?" I ask him with a serene smile.

"There is one other thing ... an incident last week in the showers ... but I'm sure you're aware of that, Dumbledore? Surely Madam Pomfrey told you all about it?"

He looks expectantly in her direction, and Poppy flushes. When she speaks, her tone is clipped, brisk, and efficient.

"There wasn't much to tell... Mr Snape was in shock, and his hands and wrists had been broken in several places." She sits up a little higher in her chair, drawing in a breath to fuel what I am certain will be a bit of a tirade. "But you did a very thorough job of stunning him, Professor Crouch—I will say that much. He didn't make a peep for hours afterward, and when he finally did talk, he made no sense. Just a stream of incomprehensible gibberish, although he seemed very determined to convey whatever it was that he was trying to tell me."

Poppy has always been adamant about the students' safety—a desirable quality in any school nurse, I should think—and I am fairly certain I know what she is implying: that Professor Crouch has sublimated his ardent quest against the Dark Arts into some sort of miniature inquisition, which he has used as an excuse to hurt Severus. Bartemius might be fanatical, but I do not think he would stoop to abusing students. At least not yet.

"Thank you, Poppy," I say, nodding thoughtfully. I then turn my attention back to Professor Crouch. "I should like to hear your version of events all the same, Barty."

He bristles, since he loathes that name. Even I am not always above being petty and childish, as much as I hate to admit it. I rest my elbows on the table and press my fingertips together, smiling encouragingly. Bartemius scowls, but then he slumps back in his chair; he is finally ready to co-operate.

"By the time I arrived on the scene, Snape was huddled in the shower stall—naked and wet, clutching his legs to his chest, rocking back and forth. The other boys said they'd come running when they heard screaming. Supposedly he'd been beating his fists against the floor. When they tried to stop him, he turned on them—kicking, biting, and clawing. They said he seemed to have no idea who they were. So I stunned him, covered him with a blanket, conjured a stretcher, and levitated him to the hospital wing." He finishes with an uncaring shrug.

"Thank you, Bartemius."

Severus is undoubtedly having hallucinations, then, and unless I miss my guess, he has not showered since.

The list goes on and on: Professor Flitwick has noticed Severus muttering to himself on several occasions; Professor Sprout tells me she saw him glaring over his shoulder at a puffapod, warning the plant to shut up and leave him alone; Professor Vector reports that his Arithmancy work is riddled with some of the most simple errors in logic; Mr Filch found him attacking a staircase; Professor Sinistra says that lately he has been asking questions with no discernible meaning—just a series of seemingly unrelated phrases with the name of a star or a constellation thrown in; and Madam Hooch caught him masturbating on the Quidditch pitch.

Well, this is a knotty problem if ever I've encountered one.

If he were not under my personal protection, I have no doubts that Severus would have long since taken up residence in a padded ward at St Mungo's. He has already suffered quite enough due to my ignoring the previous warning signs. Therefore, I shall not allow him to fall by the wayside. But what could all this possibly mean?

Poppy and I stay long after the meeting, making notes of the boy's symptoms, trying, and failing, to ascertain what they could herald. We discuss various poisons, Dark magic, all manner of mind-control, use of illicit drugs (of both wizarding and Muggle origin), and myriad naturally occurring illnesses—both mental and physical. In the end, the only thing we can conclude with any degree of certainty is that we both very much doubt Severus could be faking such a wide variety of symptoms.

Madam Pomfrey promises to do her best to find out what is wrong, and if I know our dedicated school nurse, she will not confine her search only to body of knowledge of Healing in the wizarding world. Perhaps this condition is something only previously known to Muggles. Whatever ails Severus, however, I am determined that we will find the cause, and more importantly, the cure.

To that end, a week later I sit at my desk with a thick file of medical records spread out like a carpet before me. These papers are not only Severus' medical history, but his mother's, as well, whilst she attended Hogwarts and afterward. Of course, the boy's records are always available to me. Those of his mother, however, have been sealed ever since Mrs Snape's Kiss, although shortly afterward she was cleared of all charges in the matter of her daughter's untimely death.

The Ministry of Magic have a disturbing habit of attempting to blot out their mistakes in times of war. In my opinion, that is the last thing they should do. Admitting their failings would instil more faith in the institution as a whole. I have long held the belief that the truth is generally preferable to lies. Then again, I am not in Millicent Bagnold's shoes. Although we correspond regularly, I should not presume to understand the Minister of Magic's position.

On the other hand, Millicent owes me more than a few favours. I sincerely doubt there is a document classification secret enough that I could not gain access to the papers, and with the Minister's personal blessing, no less. My innocuous request for a medical file raised no suspicions whatsoever, and I can easily have the records back in Madam Bagnold's hands before the weekend is up.

According to his records, Severus sustained a broken right femur from an early flying accident. Apparently he put a Hurling Hex on his broom in order to entertain his sister, but the curse was a touch more powerful than he had anticipated. A note in the margin states that he was not sure if it was his right or his left leg that was broken. A little odd, considering that he was ten at the time. The rest is merely the usual: measles, mumps, dragon pox ... nothing stands out.

His mother's records are much the same. Except for a rather bad bout of the grippe when she was expecting Severus, there are only a few trivial items listed for Eileen Snape. It is a pity that Tobias Snape was a Muggle. For all my connections in the wizarding world, I fear that delving into the records kept by the Muggle National Health Service is beyond the scope of my influence. Still, I doubt his medical history would shed more light on this mystery. Even using my new Pensieve I can find no pattern that links all of these seemingly random threads. Despite the ordinary nature of the records, I make careful notes for Madam Pomfrey, since I should not technically pass these files along to her.

~*~*~#~*~*~

"Find out what she knowsss. Hurt her if you have to."

I follow fiery red hair from Care of Magical Creatures, up the sloping lawn and through the darkened halls, waiting until its owner is alone. The Mudblood always has a gaggle of girls around her, but at least Potter and his gang have other things on their minds following Professor Kettleburn's lesson today. Potter is always sniffing around her. I think he fancies the little slut. Those Gryffindors could ruin everything.

"You know she'sss the missssing link between Potter and the Mugglesss. She has to be the ssspy who isss informing on you."

Slytherin urges me on as I track her, never closer than two yards. At that distance I can close the gap between us in two long strides when my opportunity presents itself, but I'm not close enough that she'll notice me before I'm ready.

"Make her ssscream, Ssseverusss. They always talk when they ssscream."

My moment has come at last. The filthy little Mudblood needs to pee, and she goes into Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Perfect. No one else would likely follow us in here, but I cast a quick Repelling Charm on the door all the same and go inside.

And then I wait.

She's chosen the middle stall, as Myrtle is gurgling in one of the U-bends at the end. We wouldn't want to disturb Myrtle, now would we, Mudblood? I listen to her unzipping the jeans she wears under her robes and then sliding down her knickers. And she hums a tune as she pisses. Why are Mudbloods always so happy?

I creep over behind the door of her stall, close enough to the sinks opposite that she won't see my feet from under the door. She's dressing again now, and she probably plans to take a good long look at herself in the mirror before going out into the halls to tempt the boys with her sluttish manner. Well, we'll see about that, Mudblood.

When the door opens, I quickly step up and grab her by the neck of her robes. I probably have hold of some hair, too, but the more it hurts the more likely she is to remember what I have to say. The Mudblood struggles against my grip, but I'm bigger and stronger. And besides, I have Slytherin on my side.

"Hurt her, Ssseverusss! Make her confessss!" he hisses.

"What the hell are you doing in here, Snape? This is a girls' toilet!" she screeches.

My only answer is to haul her across the small room to the opposite wall, where I slam her against the stone. She tries to dart under my arm to flee, but I'm too quick for her. I push her back against the wall and hold her there, my forearm against her throat, pressing the length of my entire body against her. Her green eyes are now wide with fear, and the look suits her. The slut probably thinks I'm about to ravish her. As if I'd foul my skin that way. I wouldn't give you the satisfaction, Mudblood.

"No! Stop, Severus! You're hurting me!"

"I know what you're doing, you filthy little Mudblood!" I hiss, ramming my arm into her windpipe. The green eyes get even wider.

"What? What are you—?"

"I know what you do on your holidays!"

"I don't know what you mean," she chokes out. She swallows then, and I'm confining her neck so closely that I can actually make out the muscles working against my arm through my robes. I must confess that I like the feeling.

"You know perfectly well what I mean. You go home and report to them and tell them all about me: where I live, what I'm up to, all my weaknesses! Do you enjoy being a spy? Does that make you feel important, Mudblood?"

"Severus, I don't understand! I don't know what you're talking about!"

She pushes against me with all her might, but I'm going nowhere. I don't like the shrillness in her voice when she screams, so I press harder against her throat, choking her. This time the green eyes bug. She looks almost like a porcelain doll with that white skin, fiery red hair, and glowing green eyes. I wonder if I dropped her, would she break? Would her head shatter into a thousand pieces at my feet? I lean closer, my face only an inch from hers.

"I'll have the truth, Mudblood, one way or another. I know how to make Veritaserum, you know. Three drops would have you spilling your innermost secrets to me."

My other hand has already moved to take a handful of red fire and slam her head against the wall, just to show her how serious I really am, when I seize up. I can only watch in impotent fury, as if I'm a hundred miles away, when she gives me another shove and ducks under my arm to escape. Neither can I move to break my fall, and my head crashes soundly on the stone floor.

When I come 'round, I've no idea where I am or how I got here. The circular walls are lined with portraits. On the many bookshelves, which stretch from floor to ceiling, silver contraptions whiz and whirl all around me. The noise is deafening. I try to clap my hands to my ears to muffle the sound, but I still can't move.

Suddenly the headmaster is in front of me, smiling as he always does. He's talking to me, I know, but I can't hear what he's saying over the incessant buzz of his instruments. Or is that the portraits? They're all talking, too—pointing and laughing at me. It's so hard to think when they're all breathing down my neck.

Stop staring! I'm not in trouble!

Maybe I am. Professor Dumbledore told me not to tell anyone about Lupin, and I haven't, but maybe they heard me thinking about it? I try not to think about what happened, but sometimes I can't help it because of the gypsum we've been using this week in Potions, or the Muggles. They're always trying to tell me what to think—using their electricity or radios or televisions on me. I don't know how they get inside my head, but I shall make a point to find out.

Something over the headmaster's shoulder catches my eye: white and silver light dancing on the walls. It reminds me of the glow off the gold-silver creature's blood, but it's coming from a Pensieve that sits on the headmaster's desk.

Or is it sitting?

As I watch, transfixed, the stone basin begins to vibrate and jerk, as if there's an earthquake, and then the bowl begins to spin. No, it's the liquid inside that's spinning. It rotates faster and faster, rising up above the basin in a great silvery vortex. When the column has nearly reached the ceiling, the top of the spout warps and bends toward Professor Dumbledore's head. It creeps closer and closer and I know it's going to swallow him up. Any second now it will have him.

But it doesn't swallow him. When the silver spout makes contact, it's immediately absorbed into the headmaster's body in a flash of bright white light. I think he'll be all right now, but he freezes in the midst of smiling again. His skin then begins to foam and froth, like so much wax and blood at a rolling boil in my cauldron, with sickening glopping sounds as the bubbles break the surface. The rapidly heated liquid slides off his skull, where it trickles down his beard and splatters on the floor at my feet. I can't look away or down because my muscles are still frozen, but I don't need to: I can hear and feel and smell every repulsive drop.

Those teeth continue to grin at me from where a mouth used to be, and his beard hovers in the air half an inch from his jawbone, suspended in the fleshless void. I try to move, to run, to get some help, but I'm rooted to the spot. Professor Dumbledore is dying just inches away from me, and I cannot do a thing to stop it.

Help me! Oh, God! Somebody please help me!


	3. Diagnosis

Mad let us grant him, then: and now remains / That we find out the cause of this effect / Or rather say, the cause of this defect / For this effect defective comes by cause... — _Hamlet_, Act II, Scene 2

**Diagnosis**

When Professor McGonagall leads the boy into my office, he looks ... dead. There is simply no other word to describe him, this walking corpse she has to help into a chair. Even help is an understatement. Minerva lowers him into the seat and then arranges his limbs so that he will not simply spill out onto the floor.

Severus is here because Lily Evans reported that he attacked her in the bathroom Moaning Myrtle frequents. Although in his present state I can hardly imagine his having attacked anyone, I feared it might come to this. The last thing I wished to do was relegate him to the hospital wing permanently. I wanted to give him as much freedom as could reasonably be allowed. He is at Hogwarts to learn, after all, and he can hardly do so if continually tied to a bed. If he does indeed pose a danger, however, then I am afraid he will have to remain in Poppy's care until we can shed some light on his ailment.

Once Minerva straightens she is pale, and I'm sure I am, as well. I am only half-conscious that I have been staring at him for a long moment. Not even the portraits that line my office walls feign sleep, though one is clearly more concerned than the others. Considering that Everard Prince is the boy's great-grandfather, I can understand his interest. I shake my head, however, ever so slightly, to indicate that I shall explain once I have a little more privacy. I hope he understands.

When I turn toward Professor McGonagall and nod, she takes her leave, closing the door softly behind her.

"Severus?" I ask, surprised at the timidity in my own voice.

He is not surprised, however. He's not ... anything. He shows no more awareness of my presence than that of the man in the moon. I call his name again, a little louder, more forcefully ... but he simply sits there, staring off into space. The only movement I perceive is a slight vibration on his head, probably caused by insects crawling through his filthy, matted hair.

Hard to believe now, but a few years ago Severus' hair was quite nice: every bit as long as mine, but he kept it clean at least, even if he could not always be bothered to run a comb through it. Now, like every other aspect of his hygiene, his hair has suffered unduly. His head will probably have to be shaved, as Madam Pomfrey cannot abide lice in the hospital wing.

Briefly I wonder how his Head of House could have allowed him to degenerate into such a state, before I remember who, exactly, his Head is. I imagine Professor Slughorn would find the task of bathing Severus himself as distasteful as kissing an acromantula. And the boys with whom he shares a room would be understandably hesitant to assist him after the last episode in the showers.

Poor Severus. He really is quite alone in the world now.

I call his name again, and then I snap my fingers in front of his face, but my attempts are in vain. When I clap my hands together barely an inch from his nose, he does not so much as flinch. I can but wonder what is happening behind those unfathomable black eyes.

I hesitate to use Legilimency, and especially on a student, because in my opinion reading a person's mind is only a small step away from controlling a person's actions with the Imperius Curse. A small but important step, I remind myself, as I step closer and stare deeply into his eyes.

"_Legilimens_," I whisper.

And I find ... nothing. His mind is a void—every bit as blank and impenetrable to my scrutiny as his expression.

Some will tell you a wand is a necessity, and I suppose it is for those who are new to magic. The more practised one becomes at spell casting, however, the less essential one's wand tends to be. That little cone of wood with its magical core only acts as a focal point for one's power. And I, who am one of the more powerful wizards living, even if I do say so myself, rarely need my wand for routine tasks. Yet this task is far from routine. For whatever reason, our Mr Snape appears to be an _occlumens naturalis_, although none are reputed to exist.

I draw my wand and try again. At first my search still proves fruitless. Only a few harmless memories manifest: a toddler playing with blinking wooden blocks ... a small boy trying to mount a bucking broomstick while a girl claps and shrieks with musical laughter ... a larger boy fetching potion ingredients for his mother. But then I run headlong into a wall, stronger even than the protections on Hogwarts grounds.

The oddest thing is this wall does not seem to be of Severus' design. The energy feels so very unlike him. I imagine he does not even know the barrier exists. I prod the wall with my mind, gently at first, only testing the strength at different points. When I find a weak spot—a point I think I can exploit for entry whilst doing the least amount of damage possible—I give a mighty shove.

I break through and all at once I am bathed in bright light and colours: greens and blues, reds and yellows, in odd shapes and every orientation imaginable, all dancing to a tune that normally only Severus can hear. These spinning thoughts are unlike any I have seen before. Suddenly dizzy, I reach out as I instinctively grasp for something I can lean against to steady myself, but there are no such supports inside the mind. Therefore I close my eyes and breathe slowly through my nose to master the wave of nausea.

I have always been amazed at how much easier it is to think when one blocks out extraneous stimuli. In the short moment that I have my eyes closed, I realise to my astonishment that the boy's mind is somehow encoded. Over the din, I hear something else: An urgent whispered plea floats past me, as if the words were carried on the breeze.

"Help me! Oh, God! Somebody please help me!"

The shock of a coherent message drowning in the disorienting sea of psychedelia hurtles me backward. I land with a jolt in my own mind in my office. Severus has stiffened in the chair in front of me, gripping the arms with trembling white knuckles, a look of horror frozen on his features. His eyes roll, and he then slumps in the chair. I fear the shock may have hurt or even killed him, so I reach out a shaky hand to check for a pulse. He flinches at the slight touch and sits up after another moment, blinking as if becoming adjusted to bright sunlight.

"Oh, hello, Profess..." A smile curves his lips but falters before it reaches his eyes.

~*~*~#~*~*~

"'Ere! Put it down there."

"Why do you want this thing?"

"That boy. We got to keep an eye on 'im."

"'E's no danger to us, pet. 'Ow many times do I 'ave to tell you that?"

"I don't trust 'im. 'E attacked that girl in the bathroom. We might be next."

The revolting amount of white that greets me when I open my eyes immediately tells me that I'm in the hospital wing again. And again I'm bound to the mattress by my wrists, waist, and ankles. I raise my head as much as I can, straining to look around me in order to locate the Muggles. They sound so very close this time, but as usual, I can't find them.

"Let the dog in."

"I just put 'im out."

"Can't you 'ear 'im cryin' and scratchin' on the door? 'E wants in."

"'E was scratchin' on the other side and whingin' to go out not five minutes ago."

"Maybe 'e saw a cat."

Finally I relinquish the struggle and fall back onto the pillow. They're nowhere to be seen, though I wish they would shut up, since they're no longer talking about me. I try to block out their interminable prattle by focusing on the sound of my heartbeat reverberating into my ears from the pillow. A few deep breaths later, concentrating becomes easier. A moment after that it requires no effort at all. The repetitive thuds grow louder and louder until that's all I hear, and I drift off to the comforting rhythm.

~*~*~#~*~*~

I wake to a furious knocking on my door in the wee hours of the morning. At first I fear that young Mr Riddle has decided to throw caution to the wind and finally invade Hogwarts. But no—my watchers would have long since notified me if that were the case. Old bones take a while to set in motion, so as I pull on a pair of thick woollen socks to arm my arthritic feet against the cold stone floor, I call out to my visitor before the entire castle is roused.

"I shall be there in a moment."

Wriggling into my fuzzy pink dressing gown, I cross the room. To my relief, I discover that at my door is not a panicked deputy headmistress, but rather a beaming school nurse. Madam Pomfrey's hair is slung over her left shoulder in a braid, and she is wearing a blue bathrobe with matching mouse-shaped slippers. Her cheeks are flushed with the remnants of what I can only assume was a mad dash upstairs, and she thrusts an open book into my chest.

"I've found it!" she says in a triumphant whisper between rapid breaths.

I reposition my spectacles with one hand, even as I brush my whiskers off the pages with the other so that I can read. Then I blink. Apart from the literal meaning of the words—"premature dementia"—I must admit what is written on the yellowed pages holds little meaning for me, but I am no Healer.

"_Dementia praecox?_" I ask dubiously, feeling no closer to an epiphany now than when I was fast asleep. Madam Pomfrey nods rapidly, still grinning from ear to ear. I find myself reassured by her confidence, however, so immediately following a cavernous yawn, I smile as well. "Shall I put the kettle on?"

"No, I'll do it."

I nod and then jerk my head toward my small kitchen. "You know the way."

Once I have stepped aside to allow her entrance, I close the book, marking my place with a finger. After roughly three months spent in nearly continual conversation over the boy's condition, we have drunk buckets of liquid together, so she knows exactly where I keep all my tea things. And I know how fussing over people calms and centres her, as I am sure it does all Healers and mothers, so I allow it. Poppy bustles into the kitchen and launches into her explanation as I follow in her wake. Smiling, I sit at the kitchen table and again open the book.

"The disorder is more commonly known as schizophrenia these days," she says, pulling cups and saucers from the cupboards and arranging them carefully on a tray. "They've no idea what causes the condition, but a significant number of patients who develop the symptoms experienced viral infections _in utero_, such as his mother's influenza. Mr Snape is one of the lucky ones. Many schizophrenics are never diagnosed. For those who exhibit a gradual onset, the prognosis is very poor—"

"Meaning?" I ask, frowning as I worry that this disorder might end the boy's life before he has even had a chance to live.

She reads my expression all too accurately. "Oh, it won't kill him," she says with a shake of her head, "although upwards of ten percent of schizophrenics take their own lives. I only meant that he'll most likely always show symptoms. A quarter of schizophrenics recover fully from their first episode with no signs of a relapse. Half experience recurrent episodes, but also long periods of remission. And the rest show symptoms throughout their lives. The more gradual the onset, the less likely the patient is to ever be asymptomatic."

"What do you mean by gradual? He has only been acting oddly for a few months now."

She fiddles with the corner of a napkin, staring down at the tea tray and biting her lip. I know her quite well enough to know she is worried about telling me something. After another second or two, she drops the napkin with a small sigh.

"I think he's been having symptoms for at least two years. Such as his hygiene, for instance. They were simply too mild to recognise for what they were until he'd developed more pronounced symptoms recently."

Now I know exactly why she has been reticent. Oh how blind I've been! I stare down at my gnarled hands where I have clasped them together on the table in front of me. When Severus' parents were incapacitated, I swore I would do my very best to care for the boy, as if he were my own son. Alas, my best appears to have been far from adequate.

I look up when Poppy speaks again. Now wearing a curious expression, she has a finger pressed to her chin. "He's older, though. That is a point in his favour. When they develop symptoms at an early age—sometimes as young as eleven..." She sighs and taps my battered copper kettle with her wand, producing a thick cloud of steam. "Well, it's not good."

A moment later Poppy sets the tray between us on the table and pulls up a chair whilst I set to pouring us both a cup. "How do you know it is schizophrenia and not something else?"

Her brows knit again. "I don't. That is, I'm not completely certain—and I couldn't be without the father's records—but I've eliminated just about everything else. And his hallucinations are very telling, as are the disorganised thought patterns and speech. Two lumps," she adds distractedly, though I already have the second cube of sugar halfway to her cup. "His displaying emotions inappropriate to the current situation is also a common symptom. Plus his catatonia; the odd, rigid stances; catatonic excitement—"

"What is that?" I ask frowning and handing her cup over. "It seems like a contradiction in terms."

Poppy smiles briefly whilst taking the cup from my hand. She loves explaining the intricacies of Healing to laypersons—when she is not pressed for time. If she had a mind, I'd wager she would be every bit as good a teacher as a nurse.

"Excited motor activity ... rapid movement for no apparent reason. Such as the day Professor Slughorn said he was rushing about in Potions. I'm not sure what causes it, other than general agitation or perhaps stored up energy from the times he was in a catatonic stupor. And he ended up hurting himself, which is also fairly common. At times like those, schizophrenics require additional supervision."

I nod, and she continues.

"And I'd say his obsession with those Gryffindor boys points to paranoia and delusions of persecution... It all seems to fit. At any rate, the treatment for all the symptoms is the same."

I set my cup down. "Treatment? There's no cure, then?"

She shakes her head, her frown becoming more pronounced. "No. But I've found a regimen of potions with antipsychotic properties that should diminish his symptoms a great deal, if not eliminate them altogether. I am no potion-maker, of course, but they all seem fairly easy to prepare. A brewer of Severus' calibre should have no trouble making them himself." She stirs in some milk with a slight frown and then rolls the cup between her palms for a moment before taking a sip.

"Psychotherapy is also recommended. It can help with feelings of powerlessness and isolation, and bolster healthy or positive tendencies. With time and therapy, he should also be able to learn to distinguish between psychotic perceptions and reality. And it can head off any problems with emotional conflicts that might exacerbate his condition. I'd say he should be able lead a normal, happy, fulfilling life ... with the proper treatment."

I nod, slowly taking in what she has said, and trying to imagine Severus seeking Muggle psychotherapy. Such a thing is virtually unheard of in the wizarding world.

"So, he will have to take these potions for the rest of his life?"

"Quite possibly," Poppy answers, nodding, after finally taking a sip. "The trick will be to find the minimum dosage that will alleviate his symptoms, which may take a while in itself. And if he builds up a tolerance, his dosages may have to be adjusted in the future. At least, I don't think we can assume that his symptoms will decrease as he grows older."

"Any particular reason?"

"Just..." She shakes her head and shrugs, again warming her hands on her cup. "The odds are against it. That's all."

"What exactly is schizophrenia, Poppy? What causes ... all this?"

I wave vaguely in the direction of the book, which lists the various types of schizophrenia and the symptoms of each, now I have bothered to read a bit. Of the three main types—hebephrenic (or disorganised), paranoid, and catatonic—Severus appears to be exhibiting symptoms of the latter two. According to this volume, that would make his particular condition undifferentiated schizophrenia, which appears to be a catch-all term for any type that does not neatly fall into one of the three main categories.

"Oh ... the disorder originates in the brain. Certain substances—Muggles call them neurotransmitters—communicate between the mind and the remainder of the body. In the case of hallucinations, the brain receives false signals from the senses, but with startling reality. The person is entirely convinced that whatever he sees, hears, smells, feels, or tastes is completely real.

"With catatonic episodes, though, I think it's just the opposite: the brain attempts to send signals to the body to move, but try as it might, the body doesn't respond. And there are structural differences in the brain, as well. Muggles sometimes use a photo they've taken of the patient's brain to aid in the diagnosis."

I have already opened my mouth to ask how Muggles photograph a person's brain when I realise that I would really rather not know. In spite of the resulting shudder, something in my mind puts these disparate bits of information together in a way that surprises even me. For now I stop just short of mentioning that I have invaded the area first-hand, but I cannot help thinking of that barrier I found inside Severus' mind.

If those colours and lights I encountered were these neurotransmitters Poppy mentioned, then they could not easily breach the barrier to get out, which could explain the catatonic stupor. And if they were bouncing around all over the inside of his head, I should not be surprised that Severus would hallucinate. I nearly did myself simply from being in their midst. Furthermore, if the barrier is dynamic and these substances occasionally find a weak point, as I did, many of them might come out in a rush, causing an episode of catatonic excitement.

And all this without a Pensieve. Perhaps age does breed wisdom, after all.

In a moment, I realise I must have been smirking because Madam Pomfrey is now staring at me with something akin to disapproval on her face. For the life of me, I cannot understand why so many people find smiling offensive. Then again, perhaps it is only when I smile.

I myself have never been much good at Occlumency, and any lies I attempt are usually transparent to anyone over the age of thirteen. There is no use in pretending: I shall have to explain.

"Forgive me, Poppy," I say, attempting to curb my grin, which only results in making me look every bit as triumphant as she did outside my door, I am sure. "How much do you know about Occlumency?"

"I've heard of it," she says, still looking dour. "But I'd be hard pressed to tell you what it is off the top of my head."

"It is an obscure branch of magic concerned with protecting the mind from external penetration." Her expression does not improve one bit. "The opposite is Legilimen—"

"Oh Albus, you didn't!"

Either she knows that term, or she has made an excellent guess. And as is the wont of nearly everyone in the wizarding world, she assumes that if I have heard of a certain power then naturally I possess and employ that power. Nothing could be further from the truth. Anyone who has read the most recent edition of _Hogwarts: A History_, for example, would know I taught Transfiguration, so I have heard of Animagi, but I myself was never able to master that particular talent. In this case, however, Madam Pomfrey happens to be correct.

I sigh softly. "I am afraid I did."

She opens her mouth to upbraid me most severely, I am certain, but I raise a hand to quiet her long enough to plead my case.

"In my own defence, I was terribly worried about the boy and would have done almost anything to discover what ails him."

That seems to have placated her, more or less, though her lips remain pursed and her posture stiff. I suppose that is enough to be going on with. Before she has the chance to build up a good head of steam to resume her tirade, I rise and place a hand on her shoulder.

"We had best wake Horace. I would venture that he has a long day of brewing ahead of him."

~*~*~#~*~*~

I wake again to the sound of a pulse. The heart in my pillow still beats loudly. It cannot be my pulse because my heart pounds in my chest in a different, panicked rhythm. But neither can I run from the sound. All I can do is turn my head from side to side to spare one ear or the other from the thundering noise for a few moments at a time.

Make it stop! Make it stop! Why are they tormenting me this way? What have I ever done to deserve this? I thought Professor Dumbledore was on my side, but I see him here sometimes, too, and I know he's at least complicit in my torture.

A hand suddenly slips in mine, and I grasp it with all my strength. Help me, please! Make it stop! Whoever owns that hand obviously cannot make the heart stop beating, but his words do comfort me all the same, however slightly.

"You'll be all right, Severus," he whispers in a voice that sounds oddly familiar. "Eventually Professor Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey will work it all out, and you'll get better."

I cannot bring myself to risk opening my eyes, as I'm terrified of what I might see. Before I can beg him to help me, however, his hand is gone from mine and again I am alone with this beating heart pounding in my ears. I hope he's right that I'll get out of the hospital wing in the end, but I'm not sure what he means by I shall get better.

There's nothing wrong with me, is there?

~*~*~#~*~*~

I visit Severus daily when Madam Pomfrey administers his potions, and yet I cannot bring myself to touch him. Somehow I worry that doing so might make things worse. My heart feels as though it is being ripped from my chest every time I see him these days, but I know I would only be more worried if I did not check on him regularly. I daresay nothing is more frustrating than being one of the most powerful wizards living and being able to do absolutely nothing to help someone in pain.

Some days the boy seems almost lucid. At other times, he resembles a snarling caged beast more than a talented, promising young wizard. Poppy has infinite patience with him, no matter what he does. She never flinches, even when he bellows some of the most colourfully abusive language I have ever heard pass a teenager's lips. She also refuses to stun him whilst attending to him unless absolutely necessary. As a result, she has sustained at least two nasty bites that I know of. On the other hand, she maintains that if he were stunned all the time, we would never know when we have found the proper dosages. Not only that, but she says she would also miss out on the good as well as the bad.

Madam Pomfrey delivers the potions directly into a vein in Severus' arm with her wand. He cannot be trusted to drink them at the moment, as he might bite or spit them out. I know from experience how very painful such a procedure is. The poor boy usually whimpers the whole time and nearly chews through his bottom lip.

After she finishes for the afternoon, she places his arm back under the bedclothes as usual and then pulls the covers up under his chin. This time, however, Severus leans his face against her hand with a small smile. Today is clearly one of his good days.

"We'll get you better, Mr Snape," she whispers, stroking his cheek with the back of her hand. "I promise."

Although she soon flees to her office with a handkerchief pressed firmly over her mouth, I am glad she retained her composure at least long enough to whisper those few words of comfort to him, however empty they may be. She has been working assiduously on adjusting his dosages for over a month now, and we are both beginning to lose heart.

I take some small comfort, however, in a puzzling report I have recently received from Professor Flitwick. This morning Filius told me Severus has been steadily improving in Charms. Therefore I know not only that Madam Pomfrey will eventually find the proper dosages, but that I will also apparently request a Time-Turner from the Ministry on the boy's behalf, so that he will not have to be held back a year. I suppose I should borrow some Muggle psychiatry books from Madam Pomfrey without unnecessary delay, as I intend to counsel Severus myself. Any day now he will likely show up at my office for an appointment that I have yet to schedule.


	4. Denial

Polonius: Will you walk out of the air, my lord?  
Hamlet: Into my grave?  
Polonius: Indeed, that is out o' th' air. — _Hamlet_, Act II, Scene 2

**Denial**

"Can you hear me, Mr Snape?"

Waking to absolute quiet for once is unnerving enough. Add to that the school nurse's shrill but well-meaning voice rending the silence like a knife through stiff, unyielding material and ... well, I nearly leap out of my skin.

"Of course I can hear you, Madam Pomfrey!" I snap to cover my fear. "I'm hardly deaf."

My head throbs in time with my pulse, each heartbeat sending scorching stabs of pain through my skull and inducing waves of nausea. Even the tiny bit of light that filters through my eyelids is almost too much to bear. And for some reason, I'm no longer strapped to the mattress. I wonder why. Regardless, I sit up and rub my temples, then open my eyes in an attempt to locate the nurse, to ask her for something to help with the pain.

The white blur at the foot of my bed reflects an obscene amount of excruciating light in my direction before my eyes focus on the form: the headmaster. I gasp, but despite my rather brusque retort, Professor Dumbledore beams. Since when does he take such pride in his students' berating the staff?

"How are you feeling?" he asks, and his eyes convey his concern, even if his smile doesn't diminish in the slightest.

"My head feels as though I've been browbeaten with a cauldron," I mutter. Again I squeeze my eyes shut against Madam Pomfrey's assailing voice.

"Oh!" she yelps. "I'd quite forgotten—that's a side—yes."

Her clacking footsteps quickly depart for the back of the ward. After a moment she returns and starts shovelling the remedy into my mouth—cool, minty, soothing. I recognise the clear concoction immediately and, knowing the vapours are every bit as potent as the remedy itself, I hold the gelatinous substance on my tongue and inhale deeply before I swallow. The pain dutifully subsides much sooner than it would have if I'd waited until the gel could traverse the short distance to my stomach.

I settle back onto the pillow and pull the covers tightly up under my chin. Though my head no longer pounds, I am exhausted—mentally and physically. I want nothing more than to curl into a ball and sleep forever. Why could that not have been a Draught of Living Death? Let me rest, please, I silently beg my visitors.

But no. They wish to talk. So I listen ... though I can hardly believe what I hear.

~*~*~#~*~*~

After Severus has just been so terse with Poppy, the bright smile on my face unsettles him, I am sure. If he only knew how delightful the return of his shameless impertinence is to me. He has been so very changed for so very long, and I am overjoyed to have him back to his normal, saucy self. My expression does little to reassure him, however; evidently, my grin only confuses him all the more, and he retreats under the protection of the coverlet.

If I thought allowing him to sleep right now would help, I would do it, but I know better. Postponing the moment when he has to think about all this will only make it worse when he finally knows. He needs to understand what has been happening to him. Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be true recovery.

I nod in her direction, and Poppy steps closer to the bed, drawing Severus' wrist out from under the bedclothes to take his pulse. She has only done so three times in the past fifteen minutes, but if having something to do with her hands reassures her, however inane or redundant the action might be, then Lord love her, she can count his heartbeats all night for all I care.

"You are suffering from a condition known as _dementia praecox_, or schizophrenia, Mr Snape," she explains.

The boy blinks and frowns, slowly processing what Madam Pomfrey has just told him. His eyes search her face then mine in turn, disbelief written all over his young features. After a long moment, he swallows hard, gathering enough courage to pose an obviously painful question.

"Are you saying I'm mad?"

"No, no, Severus," I soothe with a shake of my head, placing a hopefully reassuring hand on his arm. "You aren't mad. But you have a physical disorder that affects the way in which your mind functions."

His frown deepens. "I see no difference."

"I quite understand," I say, nodding. "But let me see if I can explain. May I?"

Again I smile, and then I gesture toward the side of the bed. For a moment he regards me with wary eyes narrowed into coal black slits, but finally he sits up and moves over so that I may have a seat. I smooth my robes over my lap as I desperately search for the right words. Alas, despite my reassuring tones and expression, the proper thing to say—whatever utterance would set his mind at ease—has evaded me thus far.

"This disorder has undoubtedly made you appear mad, Severus, but the largest difference between schizophrenia and insanity is that your condition is treatable. Professor Slughorn has kindly prepared some potions that will help with your symptoms and allow you to lead quite a normal life. And he will show you how to prepare them all yourself for when you leave school. The simple fact that we are now conversing shows that these potions are effective."

"What do you mean?" he asks, still scowling.

I turn and look at Poppy over my shoulder. Perhaps the explanation would be better coming from her. She has just gone to fetch a basket filled with the boy's potions. Once she has set them on the bedside table, she takes a deep breath, which she exhales slowly. Then she sets to briefly explaining the symptoms of his disorder and how to take his potions. Severus' expression is still warped into an intense frown, which troubles me deeply. I do wish there were something else I could do. Merely puzzling out what ails the boy does not appear to have been enough.

~*~*~#~*~*~

My head no longer aches, but it does seem to be spinning. Though the headmaster said I'm not mad, I do appear to have some sort of disorder that affects the way my mind functions. And despite his empty assurances, I fear I still see no distinction between the two.

Madam Pomfrey is now babbling about some potion or other that I am supposed to take. I know I should at least make an attempt to listen, but paying attention would somehow validate what they've said up until now. I'm not certain I'm ready for that.

"These potions are as every bit as effective as Muggle remedies—that is to say highly effective, provided you take a regular maintenance dosage—but with fewer side-effects than Muggle treatments. This one—" She hands me a flask that contains an emerald green liquid. "—sometimes induces migraines, but you already know that. As you also know, the normal headache remedy is sufficient and doesn't interfere with any of the other potions. You'll take one tablespoon of that twice daily." She then passes me a phial that holds a vivid orange potion. "This one has a tendency to stain the teeth, but thankfully you'll only need three drops nightly. And this you'll need three times a day: two teaspoons in the morning, one at noon, and one at bedtime. Naturally, I'll send written instructions with you when you leave."

The last potion looks awfully familiar—silver, resembling a flask full of mercury, though much lighter in both colour and weight—so I uncork the bottle and take a tentative sniff. Then I cannot repress a snort of disdain.

"You must be joking, Madam Pomfrey. This is nothing more than a Draught of Peace. You cannot seriously tell me that a simple fifth-year potion will suddenly make me all better?"

A pink tinge creeps into her cheeks, and she turns toward the headmaster in a silent plea for support.

"You might be surprised, Severus," Professor Dumbledore says calmly, smiling. "One of the first effective treatments Muggles found for schizophrenia was nothing more than a sedative."

Muggles. I don't want to hear about Muggles. Muggles are the reason I'm here in the first place.

"Now, Mr Snape," Madam Pomfrey continues in a shrill voice, pitched to carry over the sounds of clinking glass as she gathers up the potions and replaces them in the basket. "You cannot imbibe anything stronger than elf-made wine or butterbeer, as alcohol will only make your condition worse. And I'm going to keep you here another week to make certain the doses you are currently taking are adequate, and in case you have any adverse reactions."

I draw my legs up to my chest and wrap my forearms 'round my knees. As Professor Slughorn and even Madam Pomfrey will no doubt tell anyone, I believe in the Healing power of potions. Ever since my first year, I've prepared many a concoction for our school nurse with my Potions master's blessing—in exchange for House points for Slytherin, of course. If these potions treat whatever ails me, then I would be a fool not to take advantage of them, would I not?

But that would mean admitting that there is indeed something wrong with me. That's the difficult bit.

All this time I've been convinced that everyone else is to blame: the Muggles, my father, those damned Gryffindors who want my head on a platter, Madam Pomfrey when she couldn't understand me, Professor Slughorn when he thought my potions smelt wrong. I've been willing to accept almost any explanation apart from the problem's residing inside my own skull.

"...a Time-Turner from the Ministry so that you may attend the lessons you have missed," Professor Dumbledore says. "With that, the judicious application of a Shrinking Solution, and a little luck, no one will ever be the wiser."

I've only been half-listening, lost in my own thoughts, but the potion Professor Dumbledore mentions immediately catches my attention. A mere drop of the standard Shrinking Solution will regress a person one year in age.

"How long have I been here, Headmaster?" I ask, though I dread hearing the answer.

For the first time since I woke, his smile fades. "Just over eleven months," he announces, his voice grave.

Again I feel as if I've been hit with a cauldron, though this time full in the chest. Suddenly there's not enough air in the room. Eleven months? I've been lying in this prison for nearly a year?

Madam Pomfrey takes hold of my wrist, but I pull my arm out of her reach. I don't need my blasted pulse taken again, though a large swallow of the Draught of Peace wouldn't go amiss. She flinches when I draw my arm back, however, as if I'm about to backhand her. And I freeze, my eyes growing wide. Have I struck her before? The reaction seems almost a reflex on her part. Dear God! Is this fully grown witch afraid of me? Is that how I've behaved for the past year? I scarcely remember anything, so that may very well be the case. No wonder I was tied to the bed.

After a moment, the headmaster breaks the awkward silence that follows. "As soon as Madam Pomfrey releases you, Severus, I would like you to come and see me."

I nod numbly before I even think to question him. "May I ask why, Professor?"

Now his smile has returned in full force. "We have bombarded you with a great deal of information today. I thought you might like to discuss things after you've had some time to digest it all."

I nod again and, after the headmaster leaves, I retreat beneath the coverlet once more. When Madam Pomfrey comes over to tuck me in, I mutter an embarrassed apology for the manner in which I must have treated her when I wasn't quite myself. She merely smiles, briefly puts her hand to my cheek, and tells me to get some rest. I suppose she's used to ill treatment from ill people.

Ill. I'm only ill. Odd ... I don't feel ill.

~*~*~#~*~*~

Coming from watching Madam Pomfrey's medicating an indisposed Severus to a meeting with his _compos mentis_ counterpart should be a little disconcerting. It probably would be, if I had not been doing that very thing for several months now. Amazing the things to which one quickly becomes accustomed.

Counselling the boy myself was probably not the wisest choice, but I felt it was the only option available. I would prefer to stay abreast of his therapy, of course, but I also feel that a Muggle psychologist would be more than a little out of his depth when it comes to treating Severus—especially if he should have another of his violent outbursts. I doubt any Muggle, no matter how knowledgeable or experienced, would be able to subdue such a powerful and resourceful young wizard.

In addition, there are the secrecy issues. Arranging for him to see a Muggle therapist, even one with witches or wizards in the family, could prove problematic. I have never been a proponent of the casual application of Memory Charms, and I fear I am even less of one since this affair with Severus began. The mind is evidently a delicate landscape. One should not undertake renovations there lightly.

Poppy's books state that schizophrenia is present in the same percentage of the population in many different Muggles areas, regardless of climate or other varying factors. Therefore I can only assume the disorder should be present to the same degree amongst wizards. And yet, the condition is largely unknown to wizardkind. The only reason I have heard of schizophrenia is because I read Muggle newspapers in addition to the wizarding press. Limited though it may be, my knowledge likely makes me the wizarding world's foremost expert on the subject, apart from Madam Pomfrey.

I suddenly find myself wondering how many of the so-called Incurables housed at St Mungo's are merely undiagnosed schizophrenics. Of course, I shouldn't be too hard on our Healers. When I think of some of the methods Muggles have employed to treat this condition (including passing electricity through the patients' heads in order to induce seizures, or slicing up and even removing parts of their brains), the idea of imprisoning a schizophrenic in a padded cell for the remainder of his days seems almost merciful by comparison.

After studying these books, so many more things make sense to me than before. My current reading material, for instance, states that schizophrenics often have trouble with concentration and abstract thought. Little wonder Severus had so many problems in Transfiguration. The subject requires a great deal of both. I must own that I experienced a bit of an irrational sulk at his performance and subsequent decision to opt out of the class. Then again, like Minerva, I sincerely thought the boy was merely not trying.

I always hate to see a pupil give up on the subject I taught, but especially one of Severus' exceptional intelligence. I wonder if I could convince him to at least attempt his OWL again. Perhaps it was only his intense dislike of Professor McGonagall that made him finally decide to leave the class. They are both strong-willed and have a tendency to clash. I wonder if he might change his mind if I offered to tutor him. Surely he would not be so stubborn as to believe the possibility of having another OWL to his credit would be a waste of his time? The boy can certainly be inflexible when he gets an idea into his head.

And, of course, his obstinacy again makes me think of Occlumency. For some reason, every thought I have on this matter eventually leads me back to Occlumency. Therein lies the answer that I am sure has been eluding me for so very long. Perhaps I am merely not using my new Pensieve enough.

The idea that Occlumency is somehow related to this situation is an additional reason I wish to counsel Severus myself. I have a feeling a Muggle therapist would not have the remotest chance of understanding the concept. Few enough wizards are acquainted with the discipline. And although it may sound callous, I've a theory that I wish to test.

From these books of Poppy's, I have discovered that the actual structure of a schizophrenic's brain differs from that of a "normal" person's. I imagine this difference explains the barrier I encountered inside Severus' mind. If I am correct, Severus' natural predisposition toward Occlumency may not only be a consequence of his schizophrenia, but it may also prove invaluable to helping him control the condition.

But first things first. This afternoon I'll see if I can get him to talk more about his symptoms. That will likely be more than enough for today's session. He has been slowly opening up to me over the past few months, and although I have no wish to press him, I feel that we are on the verge of a breakthrough. We have discussed his symptoms in the abstract, of course, even if he has so far been reluctant to mention how the general symptoms may or may not relate to him specifically.

Except last week Severus asked me if Remus really is a werewolf, or if he had only imagined the encounter that awakened his more distressing symptoms. I was seriously tempted to tell him the lycanthropy was indeed a figment of his imagination, for his sake as well as Remus'. I could not, however, bring myself to do so in good conscience. Not to mention if he ever discovered that I had been less than truthful, it would certainly shatter the fragile trust we have developed.

At the very least, he is beginning to accept his hallucinations for what they are. That, in itself, is notable progress.

The clock on my mantel chimes the quarter hour, and I realise Severus is late, so I send Fawkes to locate the boy. When he returns, he reports that Severus is in the hospital wing. I start to shake my head and tell Fawkes to look for the other Severus, but for some reason I hesitate. And then I go to the hospital wing. As it happens, it was I who was in error, not my long-suffering phoenix.

Once I made the mistake of assuming the boy was quite alone in the world. Yet Severus appears to have someone he can lean on at any time, someone whose fortitude should not be discounted: he has himself.

~*~*~#~*~*~

Professor Dumbledore explained the provisions of the applicable laws to me, certainly, and I know I shouldn't be here. But these feet have brought me here, all the same. Some things are more important than abiding by the Ministry's mandates—my peace of mind being quite high on the list.

He's lying there on the bed, terrified, turning his head rapidly from side to side. I remember this, if vaguely. A heart was beating in my pillow, and I could not escape the dreaded sound. After a quick examination of the corridor to make certain no one is watching, I step inside the ward and approach the bed. Then I take his hand, and immediately mine is clasped in an urgent death grip.

It's strange how with all the things I've seen, heard, or felt over the past few months, holding my own hand is the oddest sensation of all. And yet, it still seems the most natural thing in the world to do. I remember how alone he—or rather I—felt then, how I wished so desperately for the slightest touch of anybody's hand ... to confirm that I was still human and not some dirty secret of a freak, locked away from prying eyes. I felt as though I were losing myself. And so I hold my own hand and stroke the back with the knuckles of my other hand as I lean down to whisper in his upturned ear.

"You'll be all right, Severus. Eventually Professor Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey will work it all out, and you'll get better."

The version of myself lying on the bed looks a fright, and I wish I could do something else to ease his suffering. Before I have a chance, however, the clearing of a throat catches my attention. As I release my hand and turn toward the doorway, my heart plummets to somewhere around the vicinity of my ankles. Of all the people to catch me breaking the laws which govern the use of the Time-Turner, it would have to be the headmaster.

Professor Dumbledore beckons to me, and I fall in step beside him in the corridor, my gaze dropping automatically to the floor. Not only have I broken wizarding law, but I've just realised that I am also late for our appointment. I daresay I couldn't feel worse if I tried.

We walk in silence for a long, exceedingly uncomfortable moment. I know our destination, but my only real indication of the journey's progress comes from watching the toes of my boots jut out from under my robes with each successive step I take. I open my mouth several times to explain myself, but I cannot find the words. How does one explain the unexplainable? Finally I manage a murmured apology, though I'm not certain if Professor Dumbledore hears me, since he picks that precise moment to speak as well.

"I imagine this is an eventuality the Wizengamot never considered when they authored that particular law."

He doesn't sound angry or even disappointed—merely thoughtful. I exhale loudly, my shoulders slumping, and attempt my apology again. Try as I might, I do not succeed in giving the words any more volume this time.

"And I for one cannot blame you," Professor Dumbledore says then, once more drowning out my attempt at expressing remorse. "I will hardly turn you over to the Ministry for wishing to comfort yourself, m'boy."

I finally dare to look at him and, as always, he's smiling. "You won't?" That, of course, I say much louder, and incidentally quite high in pitch, despite my voice's having changed nearly two years earlier.

"Of course not, Severus. I requested the Time-Turner so that you could learn, after all, and I think you have learnt an invaluable lesson today. Just don't make a habit of it."

I nod and then I find myself smiling, too. "Yes, sir."

A short while later, we're both seated in his office. He conjures some refreshments, and I munch my biscuits silently for a moment.

"Now, what shall we talk about today, Severus?"

"Whatever you want to talk about, Professor," I finally manage to mutter, watching the recently stirred milk swirling in my teacup.

When I look up, he smiles and bites into a biscuit himself. Bits and pieces of shortbread tumble down onto his beard, and I find myself smiling again. Crumbs on his beard are vastly preferable to what I've seen located there before.

"There is nothing specific that you would like to discuss?"

Now I shrug, sloshing some of the contents of my cup onto my knee. "Not really, Headmaster."

"Are you sure?" He's smiling still. "We can talk about whatever you would like: lessons, Quidditch, young ladies..."

My eyes widen, as does his smile.

"I may be a bit of an old codger, Severus, but I like to think I remember how I felt when I was your age. We can talk about anything you'd like, and I promise nothing you say will ever leave the confines of this office."

I nod and take a sip of tea. Professor Dumbledore may recall how he felt when he was my age, but I don't. Remember how I'm supposed to feel, that is. I can't even remember the last time I felt as if I own the skin I'm wearing.

"I don't feel like myself," I whisper at last, surprised that those words came out of my mouth. Strangely, my tea doesn't taste as if it contains Veritaserum. Yet I appear to have actually said that instead of merely thinking it, because Professor Dumbledore obviously heard me.

"Now you are taking these potions, you mean?" he asks, leaning back and folding his hands in his lap.

"Yes. And I feel ... alone."

The headmaster smiles warmly. "You are not alone, Severus. You will never be alone. Not if I can help it."

I nod again, afraid to give voice to what's really troubling me. I've never told anyone. I could tell him, I suppose, but he wouldn't understand. He'd think I'm insane. My face draws into a frown when I realise that he already thinks I'm insane.

"That's not what I mean, Professor."

He leans forward slowly, retrieves his cup from off the desk, and takes a sip. "Then what do you mean, my boy?"

"Slytherin," I whisper. "He's deserted me."

Professor Dumbledore's bushy eyebrows rise. "Salazar Slytherin?"

My throat is too tight to speak, so I simply nod. I was thrilled my first year when I was sorted into Slytherin. I thought that would finally make my father proud of me. It didn't. Then Slytherin himself began to speak to me, telling me that I was his heir and showing me all sorts of fascinating curses. What father wouldn't be overjoyed to hear that? But I never had the chance to deliver that happy news to my father, since the dunderhead got himself killed—in an attempt to fight off the Ministry officials who had come for my mother. Idiot Muggle. His sacrifice was in vain, as a dementor took her soul scarcely a week later.

I look up when the headmaster speaks again, his voice soft and gentle. "How long has Slytherin been speaking to you, Severus?"

I was wrong. He does understand. And he said he wouldn't report me to the Ministry. Perhaps I can confide in him, this man who has shown me such kindness, despite everything. Though I daresay spilling my innermost secrets to a white blur—as he's now become due to my rapidly filling eyes—seems fairly amusing. I clear my throat, but my voice is little more than a croak when I speak.

"Since my second year."

The white blur nods. "And you miss him, don't you?"

"Yes."

He pauses for a long moment. "How is it that you could hear him when no one else could?"

I wipe my eyes on my sleeve before answering. "Parseltongue." That comes out in another croak, so I clear my throat and try again. "He spoke to me in Parseltongue. No one else could hear him or, if they could, I daresay they wouldn't understand."


	5. Defences

I have of late ... lost all my / mirth ... and indeed, it goes so / heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth / seems to me a sterile promontory... — _Hamlet_, Act II, Scene 2

**Defences**

As pleased as I am that Severus has finally decided to confide in me, I must tread carefully here. The revelation that the boy believes a thousand-year-deceased Hogwarts founder has been speaking to him in Parseltongue unnerves me for a second. I try with all my might, however, not to let that show on my face. Since he is crying at the moment, I very much doubt he takes notice of my surprise. Severus has always been a sensitive boy, and he has been flayed for it, the name "Snivellus" being one of the more mild forms this abuse has taken over the years.

No spell can reawaken the dead, of course, but as Poppy said, the hallucinations he experienced were very real. Apparently his condition has, to some extent, brought Salazar Slytherin back. And the laborious hours I've spent reading have undoubtedly paid off. I have never been as fond of books as most people believe, or at least those who buy me gifts at Yuletide appear to be suffering from that mass delusion. Although I do not much care for reading, this time I can honestly say devouring everything I could find on Severus' ailment has come in handy.

Despite his type technically being "undifferentiated," in terms of treatment, for all intents and purposes Severus suffers from both the paranoid and catatonic types of schizophrenia, because the individual types are not mutually exclusive. Several volumes have mentioned that for paranoid schizophrenics, the delusions and auditory hallucinations often go hand in hand, forming a centralised theme.

Even so, I cannot bring myself to enquire about his delusions in so many words. It seems in very bad taste to ask, "What impossible beliefs do you hold, m'boy?" Nevertheless, I would wager that I am onto something here, although I cannot put my finger on precisely what. My mind chews away at the problem even as I work to formulate what I consider a suitably diplomatic phrasing for my next question.

"Now, why would Salazar Slytherin choose to single you out, Severus? There are many outstanding members of Slytherin House whom he might wish to address, don't you think?"

"Because I'm his heir," he states simply with a casual shrug, as if the answer should have been obvious to someone of my age and experience.

I cannot suppress a grin at that. I know who the real Heir of Slytherin is, of course, but somehow I do not think telling the boy that Tom Riddle has beaten him to the punch would do any good at the moment. I certainly do not want to put him on the defensive, especially since the nebulous theme is now beginning to solidify in my mind.

Many students care not one whit to which House the Sorting Hat appropriates them. Others elevate the concept of House pride to something bordering on an unhealthy obsession. Of the two extremes, I would tend to place Severus closer to the latter. There is no doubt in my mind, therefore, that he has studied his House founder's history tirelessly, even if he himself may not embrace Slytherin's biases regarding the purity of blood. On the other hand, he has used the entirely unflattering term "Mudblood" in reference to Lily Evans on at least three occasions to my knowledge, when the boy I met as a first year hadn't a bigoted bone in his body. The rest seems to fit, as well. I wonder...

I lean forward and retrieve a toffee from the dish on my desk, and I pop the sweet into my mouth before again reclining in my chair. "How do you feel about Muggles, Severus?" I ask as conversationally as I can around the obstruction, resting my elbows on the arms of my chair and pressing my fingertips together.

The boy flinches at my query, however, as if I have just kicked him under the desk. "What do you mean, Headmaster?"

"I should have thought the question rather self-explanatory," I reply with a slight shrug and a tilt of my head.

"I ... I don't know, sir."

"Well, why don't you think about it?"

His gaze falls to my dish of sweets, and he shrugs as well.

"Whatever your feelings, Severus, I do not imagine that you will find them hidden in amongst my toffees."

He grimaces, even as a bright flush creeps into his cheeks. And I am more than a little ashamed of myself, to tell the truth. In spite of the constant reminders that I did not wish to pressure him, at the first hint of pureblood prejudice I allow my righteous indignation to take over more swiftly than Bartemius ever has and proceed to rake the boy over the coals. Alas, every one of us is a fanatic at heart. In the midst of chastising myself, I all but miss his whispered reply.

"What was that, m'boy?" I ask as gently as I can.

"I said I don't like Muggles," he mutters, still staring into the depths of the dish.

"I see. And do you know any Muggles, Severus?"

"Ah..." Black eyes meet mine for a fleeting instant before the boy leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. "Apart from my father, you mean? No, sir."

"Then how do you know you don't like them?"

I force my eyebrows up in case he happens to look at me. Severus only shifts from side to side in his seat. I cannot be certain, of course, but he appears to be wringing his hands, as well.

"Some of them ... well, some of them ... aren't exactly nice, now are they?"

I nod, wearing a small grin. "That is very true, m'boy, but one could very well say the same thing about wizards. What have Muggles ever done to you?"

His head snaps up then, and he swallows audibly. After so many months, I can tell he is trying to avoid telling me something for fear that I will think he really is mad. And I suspect I already know what he is thinking. Considering the biases so prevalent in Slytherin House, I tell myself that unlike before, this could very well be a matter of life and death. We are in the middle of a war, after all, and I would hate to see him join Riddle's ranks because of nothing more than delusions caused by his disorder. He is at a critical juncture, and because of that, I quickly convince myself that I can no longer afford to be delicate. I shall not gamble with his future.

"Have they hurt you?" I press on. Of course I know Muggles could not possibly have hurt him if he hasn't met any, but that does not mean he cannot perceive Muggles as a threat to his safety.

"No, Headmaster," he whispers. "Not yet at least."

"Have you a reason to believe Muggles might hurt you in the future?" I ask then, again gently.

I can almost feel his inner struggle as he tries to decide how much to disclose with his response. "Not hurt, no ... but..." He sighs loudly and seems to deflate into the depths of the armchair across from me. "But I think they have been trying to control me."

And now it all makes perfect sense. One book in Madam Pomfrey's collection mentioned that in addition to believing others can hear their thoughts, paranoid schizophrenics often think extraterrestrial beings have the ability to control their minds. What Muggles with this condition would not know, however, is the presence of wizards in the world accounts for most if not all of the phenomena they ascribe to entities from outer space. As no case studies of wizarding schizophrenics are readily available for my perusal, I can only extrapolate the analogous situation. When the proverbial shoe is on the other foot, a wizard might attribute such actions to the most alien group of which he knows—namely, Muggles.

"How have Muggles been attempting to control you, Severus?" I ask, keeping my voice as even as possible.

"How should I know?" he snaps, his shoulders now working in a way that suggests he is twisting the folds of his robes in his agitation. "At least wizards have the decency to use a curse that's supposed to feel good," he adds in a churlish grumble.

Again I cannot keep a smile from growing briefly on my face, but I carefully remove it. "Fair enough," I concede, nodding. "But Professor Slughorn tells me that you are as good a scientist as any he has ever seen come through this school. I was merely wondering if you have formed a working hypothesis."

Severus looks up at me with narrowed eyes and blinks. How he manages to appear both surprised and suspicious at once amazes me to no end, but I daresay he had not expected to receive a compliment.

"I think it has something to do with electricity, Headmaster."

"How so, m'boy?" I ask, with an encouraging smile.

"Muggles have power lines that send electricity all over the country." He frowns and slumps back in his chair, running a finger over his lower lip. "Or perhaps they use radios or televisions. Supposedly their radio waves and television signals can travel many miles. Maybe that's how they do it."

He shrugs and again meets my gaze, as if asking my opinion on his theory. Well, I suppose I should have expected this. The boy is eager for approval, even for a Slytherin. Despite his ailment's having previously ravaged his logical thought processes, he has hit upon the most likely explanation ... at least under the circumstances. Alas, now I have to expose the fallacies in his reasoning, which will come as a blow, I am almost certain.

~*~*~#~*~*~

Everybody tells me that I'm back to normal, but I obviously don't understand what "normal" is because I've never felt more abnormal in my life. Oh, my marks are improving, no doubt. But I like to think there's more to me than just my teachers' quantitative assessment of my skills.

I no longer suffer from those troubling ellipses of thought, of course. I remember one time when I reached for a Dark Arts book on my beside table, and four hours elapsed before I managed to finally lay hold of the thing. That hasn't happened lately. Nor have I had any frightening visions, which is an improvement, as well. I suppose I should be grateful, shouldn't I? And yet I only feel wrong ... off, somehow.

When I finally left the hospital wing and moved back into my dormitory, Avery, Wilkes, Lestrange, and Rosier said they had been especially worried about me. And they've taken it upon themselves to act as something of a guard of honour; now they flank me nearly everywhere I go. Even Lestrange's girlfriend has got in on the act. Seeing as Bellatrix Black is both Head Girl and a duelling champion, people tend to give our motley little gang a wide berth. So some good has come of the situation, I suppose.

I imagine they think those Gryffindors had something to do with my "breakdown" originally, and so they are determined to keep Potter and company as far away from me as possible at all times. Not that I mind. One day that swollen head of Potter's is likely to explode, and I wouldn't want the resulting mess on my robes.

They rarely leave me alone long enough to take my potions these days. I hate hiding so much from my friends, but it's also mildly embarrassing. I'm sure they would have assumed such self-medicating was only a temporary thing. How can I possibly tell them that Madam Pomfrey said I'll have to take these potions for the remainder of my life? I don't want my closest friends to think I really am mad. They already seem to think I'm incapable of looking after myself.

In addition to protecting me, they've mentioned more than once how nice it is to have the "old" Snape back. I'll go with them to Hogsmeade now, and they all laugh when I say something they deem witty, but I don't see why they should want to associate with me. I feel so deadly dull. Though they apparently find my company amusing, so they must know what they're talking about. I'm the one whose sense of reality is impaired ... at least according to Professor Dumbledore. Then again, perhaps they only humour me so that I won't shrug off their security.

And today, as usual, they accompany me to the headmaster's office in tight formation, only breaking ranks long enough to scowl at anyone who dares so much as a sidelong glance in my direction. In the short walk from the Great Hall, Bella has already taken twenty points from Ravenclaw House for curious eyes lingering on me a fraction of a second too long. I can't say I mind that, either, as Ravenclaw has been catching us up in the tallies lately.

As much as I despise the subject, I'm glad that the headmaster offered to tutor me privately in Transfiguration. I hate to lie to my friends, and that is a much less awkward excuse when they ask why I have to see Professor Dumbledore so often. No, of course I'm not having any sort of counselling. I'm merely revising to prepare for my OWL.

Of course, last week the headmaster mentioned another type of lesson he wants to give me, and I am more than a little curious to find out what that might be.

I bid my friends farewell outside the gargoyle that guards the entrance to Professor Dumbledore's office and climb the rotating staircase. My hand has scarcely contacted the wood for a second rap when the headmaster opens wide the door, smiling broadly, as always.

"Good afternoon, m'boy," he says cheerfully, clapping a hand to my shoulder in greeting. "How are you?"

"Fine, Professor," I lie with a smile. I don't feel fine at all, but neither do I want the headmaster to think I need any more coddling. "Very well, in fact."

"Good, good. I have something I need to attend to momentarily, but I shan't be long." He gestures toward the chair in front of his desk.

After I take a seat, Professor Dumbledore closes the door behind him. Shortly I hear his footsteps retreating down the stairs, and then I notice white light dancing on the wall behind his desk. He's left his Pensieve out again. The last time I saw that stone basin, the sight was the prelude to a terrifying vision. Now I know logically that incident was merely a hallucination, and such a thing shouldn't happen again whilst I'm taking my potions ... but how can I be sure?

Once I've made certain the portraits aren't watching me, I rise from my chair and walk around the desk. The Pensieve looks harmless now, as though it would never attack anyone, but it's also the most fascinating object I've ever seen. The white-silver vapours remind me of things I saw repeatedly in some of my hallucinations, and there's a face floating there on the silvery surface: a pale boy who looks to be about my age, with dark hair and eyes and a large nose. I wonder who he could be...

~*~*~#~*~*~

When I return my office, Severus is not as I left him. No longer is he seated in front of the desk as he normally is for our sessions. This time, he is bent over the desk and stares into my Pensieve as if watching a scene from one of my memories. Although leaving the Pensieve out was somewhat careless of me, I do believe I drained the basin of all thoughts before I left. Therefore I can but wonder what within the silvery depths has caught his attention.

I step closer and place a hand on the boy's shoulder, intending to ask him just that, when he yelps and wheels about, a hand clutched to his chest. I certainly hadn't meant to frighten him, but neither had I expected him to be so absorbed in an empty Pensieve as to not notice my entrance.

"Forgive me, Severus. I did not mean to startle you."

He shrugs and attempts a smile that looks painfully forced.

"What were you looking at?" I ask, with a nod toward the basin.

Severus blinks and then opens and closes his mouth a few times, as if I have posed an immensely vexing question. "Your Pensieve, Professor."

I smile and nod. "I am aware of that, m'boy. What I meant, however, was what were you observing inside my Pensieve."

Again he appears troubled by my query. His forehead contracts into a frown, and at last he mumbles, "Silver ... and a face."

Now I must confess that I am a touch confounded myself. The silver makes perfect sense, but that Severus would refer to his likeness as "a face" rather than "my face" seems a little out of the ordinary. Not to mention the fascination with his own reflection, which is not exactly the norm, either. I have read, of course, that schizophrenics often have trouble recognising themselves in photographs or in mirrors, but I had not quite imagined that would translate to Pensieves, as well. Now I think on it, however, this makes perfect sense, too. I will admit that I was at first sceptical of such a notion, so perhaps this is something one must witness for oneself before belief can be bothered to take up residence in one's head.

"Surely you were looking at your face, were you not?"

He blinks again. "Is that me?" he asks with complete innocence, gazing into the basin once more. I can tell he means it, too: he honestly did not know, despite the fact that the image looking up at him is a perfect likeness. The boy then touches his face in various places as he continues his inspection of the silver surface. Finally he straightens and smiles. "It is me. How did I get in there?"

I thought the potions would eliminate all of Severus' symptoms. Alas, not so. Or this peculiarity may not be a psychotic effect of his malfunctioning neurotransmitters, but rather another consequence of the structure of his brain. Although I am at a loss as to how to respond to his question, I can but feel a sense of satisfaction as yet another piece of the puzzle has snapped firmly into place. I always found Severus' lack of concern about his grooming mildly unsettling, but previously I had put this down to nothing more than a deficiency of _amour propre_. On the other hand, were I not able to recognise my own reflection, I cannot say I would take so much care with my appearance. Instead of attempting an appropriate reply to the boy's question, I once again rely on my slightly potty reputation and promptly change the subject.

"Now, m'boy—before we get started today, is there is anything you would like to tell me?"

"No, sir," Severus answers, smiling again, even if the expression still looks a touch forced. "Everything is fine. I think ... ah ... I think I'm doing quite all right."

"Very well, then," I answer at last, nodding slowly.

I then put my Pensieve away on a shelf and retrieve a tapestry for the boy to Transfigure. His tutoring has been going exceptionally well, so today I have planned something particularly challenging. If he accomplishes this little task as well as I imagine, then I shall pronounce him more than prepared for his OWL, and we will move on to Occlumency. I unfurl a reproduction of the _Lady and the Unicorn_ tapestry depicting the sense of hearing and lay the thing across my desk. Fitting, I think, considering auditory hallucinations were among the first Severus experienced.

The boy simply stares at the intricate picture for a long moment. "What do you want me to do with that, sir?" he asks with some little trepidation sounding in his voice.

"Whatever you like, m'boy," I answer, smiling in such a way as to hopefully convey that I have every confidence in his abilities. "I only ask that when you are done, nothing remains in its original state."

He takes a deep breath, pulls his wand, and exhales slowly. "I shall do my best, Professor."

"That is all I ask, Severus," I answer, patting his shoulder. "Your best is all I shall ever require of you."

Severus points his wand at the tapestry, and his eyes glaze over. He is unfocusing them, to better concentrate on the mental image of what he would like the tapestry to become, just as I have taught him. Then, slowly, the material begins to shimmer as the transformation commences. Whilst I watch, yellows turn to gold, whites to silver, oranges to copper, blues to sapphires, reds to rubies, greens to emeralds, and browns to topaz. After a moment, nothing remains that was once cloth, precious stones and metals having taken their place, which makes the jewel-encrusted "tapestry" lie stiffly on my desk. I am more than a little impressed: not only at his progress, but also his discriminating taste. If one only judged from the boy's wardrobe, one would never know he had such an eye for beauty.

I beam at him, clapping softly. "Oh, well done, m'boy! Well done!"

Severus smiles again, this time genuinely. "Thank you, Headmaster."

"Now, I need to look for something, so that will give you a moment to change it back."

I turn and search my bookshelves for that book on Occlumency I meant to locate earlier and would have, if not for that pressing owl from the Minister of Magic. Once I return, again I have a tapestry on my desk, and I also have a pupil who looks immensely pleased with himself. When I hand over the book, Severus starts to put his wand away to better examine the volume. Before he has the chance, however, I grasp the tip and look at him very seriously over the top of my spectacles.

"Severus, I want you to swear to me that, if you ever even think of suicide, you will come and talk to me first."

The black eyes go wide and then blink a few times before narrowing as he frowns. "Why would you think I'd want to kill myself, Professor?"

I smile and place my other hand on his shoulder. "I don't, my boy, but I do care about you. And Madam Pomfrey tells me that suicide is unfortunately all too common amongst young men with your condition." I take a deep breath and exhale in a sigh. "I worry about you, Severus. Call me an old fool if you like, but I do. So please ... promise me you will come and see me before you do anything rash."

After a moment, he smiles softly. "Certainly, Headmaster. I promise."

"Thank you, Severus," I say, and I cannot help grinning as I give his wand an affectionate little shake before I release the tip.

Of course, he probably does not realise the significance of the oath he has just made, or rather the fact that I was holding onto his wand as he did so. This vow is not Unbreakable in the usual sense, as that would rather defeat the purpose. Should he contemplate suicide and then fail to come see me, he would still end up dead, which is exactly what I am trying to prevent. Instead I have employed an ancient magic that will ensure the wizard in him will keep his oath, even if he is in no fit mental state to consciously comply. At times like these, I understand all too well why the Sorting Hat considered putting me in Slytherin, yet I do sincerely believe the end justifies the means in this case.

"I think that should be all for today, m'boy, but I want you to read that book before our next session."

He nods, now putting his wand away, and then examines the book's title more closely. "What is Occlumency, Headmaster?"

"Occlumency is an obscure branch of magic concerned with protecting the mind from external penetra—"

"But I thought you said Muggles weren't controlling my mind, sir?"

I frown slightly, as I had not imagined he would get that impression. That assumption follows quite naturally from the general definition of Occlumency, I suppose, and such a conclusion shows his mind is as sharp as it ever was prior to developing symptoms. Of course, I had not meant to inadvertently confuse him by bringing to mind one of the delusions he has put so much work into giving up.

"Sorry, Professor," Severus mutters, apparently taking my frown as a reproach for the interruption.

"Oh no, Severus," I soothe, smiling again so that he will hopefully relax. "Muggles are not controlling your mind. But I have discovered throughout the course of your treatment that you happen to be something of a natural Occlumens."

He blinks again. "But how, Headmaster? How can I be proficient in a form of magic I've never heard of before today?"

"Well, m'boy, I can only give you my suspicions. You see, because of your condition, the structure of your brain differs from that of most people's. Even when you are taking your potions, which manage the symptoms, the structural differences remain. It is my belief that the altered structure of your brain accounts for your predisposition toward Occlumency.

"The other aspect of the discipline, however, is the one that especially interests me where your condition is concerned. Most people who attempt Occlumency have to approach protecting their minds by learning to deactivate certain memories and emotions. If you can learn to do that as well, you should be able to lessen any negative emotions that vex you and might threaten a relapse."

And he blinks yet again. Our little talks seem to make him do that a great deal. "All right, Professor. If you say so."

"I do," I say, grinning broadly. "Now, read that book, and we shall talk more about this next week."

He nods, already starting toward the door, but he stops with his hand on the knob. "Should I bring this back if I finish before our next appointment?"

"Oh no, m'boy, you may keep it," I answer with a dismissive wave and a shake of my head. "I have seven copies of that particular book."


	6. Dissension

Polonius: Do you know me, my lord?  
Hamlet: Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.  
Polonius: Not I, my lord. Hamlet: Then I would you were so honest a man.  
Polonius: Honest, my lord?  
Hamlet: Ay, sir. To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man / pick'd out of ten thousand. — _Hamlet_, Act II, Scene 2

**Dissension**

Outside Professor Dumbledore's office, I open the book he gave me—_Closing the Consciousness: A Beginner's Guide to Occlumency_ by Thalamus Forne-Hicks. After skimming only the first few paragraphs, I snap the thing shut again with a snarl. I couldn't empty my mind of all emotions right now if my life depended on it, even if I knew how to do so. Must I consistently make myself look a fool in front of the headmaster?

I've always had a problem with mirrors, but I quickly learnt to adapt. I attract enough unwanted attention through the simple act of breathing. So now I avoid mirrors completely. I never imagined a Pensieve would function in the same way when not playing a memory. And so once again I look like an idiot.

Will this never end? Why am I taking these blasted potions if they don't suppress all my symptoms? Should I see my face in all sorts of inanimate objects?

"I suppose you must look like me, as well?" I snap at the gargoyle at the foot of the stairs.

Thankfully, it doesn't reply.

Back in my room, I toss the book on the bedside table and flop onto my bed in a sulk. This is not getting any easier. If anything, it's getting worse. New symptoms seem to lurk in crawlspaces and around every corner, all simply waiting to leap out and frighten or embarrass me at the most inconvenient time. And old symptoms, whilst not completely gone, morph and hide just as well, making me feel as though I'm forever jumping from foot to foot on hot coals.

Seeing as sulking never got anyone anything, after a bit I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, then sit up, light a candle, and once again open the book. Almost immediately I am entranced. The theory behind Occlumency is fascinating, even if it isn't strictly applicable to my situation. The mind is like the ocean, this book says. Water is emotion, the fundamental unit of thought. When the water moves in a concerted manner—waves, tides, eddies, etc.—thoughts are the result. Stronger emotions are like warmer water: less dense and able to move more rapidly. Annoyance could therefore be likened to causing a whirlpool, whereas hatred might produce a tidal wave.

Knowledge, on the other hand, would be represented by the creatures that live in the ocean. Some bits of knowledge seem insignificant, such as the third letter of my given name is a V. These relatively inconsequential facts are analogous to tiny one-celled creatures that are moved about by the tides but are still dependent on the water for their survival. Though minuscule, their influence on the ocean is nevertheless not negligible. Millions of these creatures live there, after all, and they collectively affect the water's composition in a profound way. Were all those seemingly insignificant creatures to suddenly die, the ocean would be irreparably damaged. The same could be said of facts that appear unimportant at first glance. In their absence, entire thought processes would stall indefinitely.

Other things one has learnt are much larger in importance, such as every Dark Arts book I've ever read. These are like whales. Every swipe of a whale's tail displaces many gallons of water and influences the motion of the water in a noticeably direct way. But the relative importance of certain facts is very much dependent on the individual person. Facts that carry great weight in my mind may be trivial knowledge to someone else, so one man's whale is another man's krill.

Repetition of thoughts in patterns cause memories, much as low tide predictably follows high tide, or the North Atlantic Current always flows in the same general direction. Memories are made up of both knowledge and emotions—not exclusively one or the other—but not all of our memories are constantly present at the forefront of our minds. Like the currents in the ocean, memories are forever in motion, ebbing and flowing, rising and falling. Some stay with us constantly, just below the surface, because we want them to. Others drift away the very instant we sit for an exam. Still others hide in the back of our minds, all but forgotten, until they pop up one day to unexpectedly say hello.

This last phenomenon is the most crucial in terms of Occlumency. Not the memories themselves, but the mechanism that hides them away in the depths. When an event is fresh in the mind, the emotions connected to that event are the strongest, and the memory of the event therefore glides just below the surface, easily accessible to both the thinker and to anybody who would penetrate his mind.

With time and distance from the occurrence of an event, however, the emotions surrounding the memory become less intense. Thus the waters "cool," slowing down, and the memory sinks further and further into the depths. The memory still exists, but it is buried away near the mind's ocean floor—inaccessible, or nearly so. The person still has knowledge that the event occurred, just as the animals are not sucked down along with the undertow. But the memory depends on both the knowledge and the emotions to show itself in our conscious thoughts. Without the strength of associated emotions to give it buoyancy, the memory sinks to the bottom of the ocean and is only called to the forefront when something else—something apart from the associated emotions—brings it to mind.

So still waters do indeed run deep.

And this is apparently how Occlumency works. Yet instead of using time and distance to cool the emotions surrounding memories, one uses conscious relaxation techniques, of which the book includes two classes: physical and mental. The physical techniques involve concentrating on deep, rhythmic breathing whilst contracting and then relaxing all the muscles in a certain order. This makes sense, because how can one calm the mind if the body is agitated? I attempt the physical techniques first, and clearly I am successful. The next thing I know, I'm flat on my back, fully clothed, with the book lying open on my chest. The sunlight streams in through the curtains around my bed, since I forgot to close them before I drifted off last night.

The room is utterly still and deserted. I suppose everyone has gone to watch the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. I feel no need to witness this massacre myself. I know exactly how things will turn out. If Ravenclaw happens to win, they'll take the House Cup away from Slytherin. Should Gryffindor win, Ravenclaw won't have enough points to overtake us. The Gryffindor team is much stronger, so they ought to win in a fair match. My Housemates seem to think Potter will tell the Gryffindor team to throw the match in order to allow Ravenclaw to win the House Cup instead of Slytherin. But I know Potter. Quidditch is his life. He'd rather die than lose a match. That Cup is as good as ours.

Since I've no concerns about securing the House Cup, I sit up again and place _Closing the Consciousness_ on the bed in front of my crossed legs. The first step of the mental relaxation techniques, the book says, is to concentrate on a happy memory—not unlike summoning a Patronus. This is to calm and centre the mind, as pleasant memories and feelings are easier to manipulate than not-so-pleasant ones.

So I think of Ophelia. Not blue-lipped with her head lolling eerily as in my last memory of her, but earlier—when she was first learning to say my name. "Sevwus" was as close as she ever got, but the way her eyes lit up when she called to me is by far the happiest memory I possess. After I'm feeling suitably calm and centred, I move on to the second step, which is clearing the mind of all emotions.

Now I have nowhere near as much success. This appears to be similar to what happens when somebody tells you, "Try not to think of purple Erumpents." Once the suggestion is planted in your mind, all you can think of is purple Erumpents. I am either frustrated at not being able to clear my mind, or I manage to clear my mind for a few seconds, only to find myself feeling an inordinate amount of pride at having done so. And pride, of course, is another emotion. This is going to take some work, clearly.

~*~*~#~*~*~

The selection of prefects is a complicated process involving the consideration of many factors. Not the least among these is a student's academic performance. If a pupil were already struggling prior to fifth year, then saddling that pupil with additional responsibilities would be inadvisable. Once a student has passed the academic qualifications, other factors taken into account include leadership skills and disciplinary record. The Head of each House makes a short list of candidates, and from that list I select the next year's prefects.

When it comes to choosing a Head Boy or Head Girl, however, I am allowed a bit more discretion. They usually come from the pool of seventh year prefects, and the reason for that is obvious. Those who have been prefects for two years prior certainly understand what is expected of them. Nothing in Hogwarts bylaws explicitly states that the Head Boy and Girl must have been prefects previously, and therefore, the occasional captain of a House Quidditch team manages to slip through. And this year I have once again decided to buck convention and choose an odd man out for Head Boy.

I am sad to say that although he was immensely well suited to being a prefect in view of both his leadership qualities and disciplinary record, Severus' academic performance left a great deal to be desired. As I now know, that was hardly the boy's own fault, as demonstrated by the "Exceeds Expectations" that he recently earned for his Transfiguration OWL. Nevertheless, I daresay the added stress involved with being a prefect would not have been good for his condition, so that Professor Slughorn failed to nominate him is probably just as well.

His Transfiguration OWL is hardly the only reason I have to be proud of the boy. I made arrangements for Severus to stay at Hogwarts this summer so that we could continue his lessons as well as his counselling, and I am glad that I did. He has been doing exceedingly well with both. We have identified one feature of his visual hallucinations that should help him to recognise them more easily in the future: the colour silver seems to figure prominently in his visions. So down the road should he experience something frightening, he will know that the appearance of anything silver makes the apparition suspect. This is definite progress.

In addition, the boy appears more calm and serene with each passing day. His posture has also improved, straightening the rounded shoulders I was concerned to see in one so young, and with the improvement in his carriage, most of the twitchiness in his walk has disappeared. Even with his newly sallow complexion (the bright orange potion in his regimen evidently stains the skin as well as the teeth with continued usage), to my mind Severus has never looked better. He appears much more confident and happier overall—so much so that part of me wishes this summer did not have to end. Most of all I am pleased to see he has had so much success with learning the relaxation techniques, although I must confess a great deal of the delight is selfish on my part. I dread his reaction when I have to tell him that I have chosen James Potter to be Head Boy.

I look on all my students as if they were my own children. Well, "grandchildren" is probably more apt these days. Each is unique, with his own talents and quirks, and I love them all equally. This somewhat paternal perspective is also why I realise my pupils will fight amongst themselves. They cannot get on well all the time. To think otherwise would be hopelessly idealistic. For all my championing of seemingly hopeless causes, even I am not that naive.

I suppose I am naive, however, in that whenever I am forced to choose one over another, I always hope the one who is not chosen will see that I do not care any less about him. Alas, that is seldom the case, but it does not stop my wishing it so—just this once. And once again, I find myself daring to hope that Severus will see that it is all for the best. At the very least, I may be able to diffuse his considerable anger before the next term begins.

Then again, perhaps I am just an old fool, after all.

~*~*~#~*~*~

Spending the past summer at Hogwarts has been very relaxing, though many would probably only bemoan the school's lonely state. The castle does seem to be holding its breath, awaiting the next influx of students. But I couldn't be happier to wander the cool corridors unmolested, or walk in the grounds and for once attract no one's attention, apart from the giant squid. This is surely my idyll. Or at least it would be, if I felt like myself. Hard to tell against the backdrop of grey as far as the eye can see, but my personality seems all muted, washed-out colours now, rather than the vivid hues I once knew. I feel an overcast shadow of what I was—dusk to everyone else's midday.

Before he left for the holidays, Professor Slughorn told me I could have a free rein over the student Potions stores and even certain of his private ingredients, along with access to a battered copy of _Moste Potente Potions_. Of course, this was on the condition that I kept a detailed list of what I've used so that he may order replacements upon his return next week. But I don't mind that. I've done many an inventory for him previously, and I shall undoubtedly do so again. Being able to brew at one's leisure is a blessing, and a tedious cataloguing of the things I've consumed is a small price to pay.

My latest concoction needs to simmer for two hours and six minutes before I may move on to the next phase. Therefore I adjust the flame under my cauldron to the lowest setting before I leave for my appointment with Professor Dumbledore. The headmaster gave me a permanent password so that I might gain access to his chambers at any time of the day or night during the summer, in case of an emergency. At first I wasn't familiar with the term, so I looked it up in the Muggle Medicine section of the library. Since the school is all but deserted now, I thankfully didn't have to worry about any of my friends looking over my shoulder.

I imagine this password is Professor Dumbledore's idea of a joke, but I must confess that I don't find it all that amusing.

"Thorazine," I mutter.

The gargoyle guarding the entrance immediately steps aside, and I hope I'm only imagining the smirk on the stone lips. The headmaster opens the door mere seconds after I've knocked and ushers me into a chair. Once he's seated himself on the front of his desk, I notice his odd smile. I've seen that expression before: his mouth may be grinning, but his eyes show concern. I frown as I realise that he has bad news.

"How have your experiments been progressing?" he asks conversationally, clasping his gnarled hands in his lap. Despite his query, he doesn't sound the least bit interested in my brewing, and I cannot help wondering what is going on.

"Fine," I say, trying to repress a sigh, as I've no wish to sound as impatient as I feel. But if he does have bad news to deliver, I do wish he'd get on with it.

Professor Dumbledore nods and takes a deep breath. "As you will soon learn once the new term commences anyway, Severus, I wanted to tell you first: I've decided to make James Potter Head Boy."

I blink. He cannot have just said what I think he's just said. "Excuse me?"

"I have decided to make James Potter Head Boy."

"Why?"

He looks away. "A number of reasons. One is he has excellent marks. Another is many of the students look up to him."

I snort and roll my eyes.

"And lastly, James did save your life, Severus." Now he finally meets my gaze, those blue eyes piercing into my very soul. "Seeing as he is not overly fond of you, I think that action says a great deal about his character. It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities. Surely you see that his decision to save your life made James the best candidate?"

I gape for a long moment, unable—or at least unwilling—to process this. When I finally find my voice, the words spill out in an uncontrollable, envenomed hiss.

"Potter was saving Lupin, Black, and himself, not me. But being in on that joke in the first place certainly speaks volumes with regards to his character."

"James did not know what Sirius had plan—"

"Of course that's what he would have told you, Professor! Anything to avoid being expelled."

I notice my hands are beginning to ache because of how hard I'm gripping the chair's arms. The world feels as though it's spinning too fast, and if I let go, I might be in danger of falling off.

"I am certain he was telling the truth, Severus."

"Truth is the exclusive realm of Gryffindors now, is it?"

"I did not say that, nor will you ever hear me say it." His voice is quiet, but amazingly I still hear him loud and clear.

"I thought you were on my side!" I shout before I can help myself, jumping to my feet and knocking the chair to the floor in the process.

His blasted calmness infuriates me more than anything else. The room still rings from my outburst and the sound of the chair's crashing down when Professor Dumbledore straightens and takes a deep breath. He looks very tired suddenly, and older than I've ever seen him.

"I am, Severus," he pronounces slowly, as if he doesn't want me to miss a single syllable. "I fully believe your account of what happened that night—"

"And so you've made Potter Head Boy—"

"—but I also believe James' story, which only contradicts yours on certain subjective points."

"—when he and his friends tried to kill me?"

"Severus, calm down! This is not good for your condition. You need to—"

"Clear my mind of all emotion. Yes Headmaster, I know all this rubbish is supposed to help me, but it's not helping!" Before I'm even aware of having moved, I've levelled my wand at him.

"You don't want to do that, Severus," he says, still quietly, but the old face is lined with the first real reaction I've seen so far, and his blue eyes flash fire. "I know you do not honestly wish to curse me."

The air between us suddenly crackles to life, and I can tell that he's trying to will me to calm down. But I want to own this anger, every molten drop now surging through my veins. The fine hairs on my neck rise, thousands of tiny snakes all wanting to strike him, to wound him as he has wounded me. Every fibre of my being trembles, except my perfectly steady wand arm. And then a terrible, invisible weight settles on my wrist, as blue-flame eyes attempt to melt the obsidian of mine.

I fight to keep my wand aloft, when it hits me with the full force of a Stunner to the chest: Dumbledore, the champion of those wretched electricity-mongers, is trying to control me, but that hardly began with his forcing my wand down just now.

He's told me the Muggles aren't trying to get inside my head. Radio waves and television signals don't work that way, he said, but I know better. I see what he's trying to do. I'm a threat to his cause, and so he's trying to quell me by numbing my mind and my senses. Indeed I think that's why he wanted to keep me here this summer, right under his crooked nose. He couldn't risk my taking a jaunt outside the castle, where I might once again begin to think for myself.

I can see through you, old man, and I won't allow you to deliver me to my enemies like some placid lamb to the slaughter. I may have been your ward for a time, but you do not own me, and I shall not allow you to control me. With your pabulum of potions and your "counselling," you've tried to convince me that I'm mad, that the Muggles don't want me dead. I may threaten their comfortable, ordered little world by my very existence, but I am not mad. Genius is often mistaken for insanity. And I am the One. I shall not let you keep me safely quiet, complacent, and out of your way whilst they run roughshod over the wizarding world. Not you or anyone else can keep me from my destiny. Through me, Slytherin shall prevail.

I do not yet possess enough power to battle him directly, though Slytherin has finally been kind enough to show me the truth. And he will undoubtedly show me how to defeat this old fool in the end. Perhaps Dumbledore cannot get inside my mind without considerable effort, or perhaps he was merely lying before. Either way, I am a true Occlumens now, and he shall never invade my thoughts again.

I take a deep breath and easily clear my mind of all emotion, putting my wand away with a nonchalant shrug. "No, of course not, Headmaster. I merely got carried away. I'm sorry." Then I force an apologetic smile.

Dumbledore shakes his head and grasps my upper arm, his own benign grin firmly back in place. "Quite understandable, m'boy. I imagined you would take the news badly, but I had hoped—rather foolishly, it seems—that it would not distress you unduly. An old man's mistake."

His eyes turn a bit sad at the last bit, but I'm certain it is all an act. Well, two can play at that game. Oh yes, I can play your games for another year—merely one short year. I can act the part of the perfect student, taking my potions dutifully, like a good little boy. In fact, I think you'll be surprised at just how very good I can be.

In the months that follow, I am every bit as good as my silent vow. I take my potions, go to my lessons, do my homework, prepare for my NEWTs, and never cause a single problem. I even control the considerable urge to talk back to my teachers, and I watch Potter and Evans' ridiculous mating dance unfold with all the quiescence my ever-growing skill at Occlumency can provide.

But most of all, I bide my time.

My counselling sessions continue without interruption. I couldn't avoid them without arousing the headmaster's suspicions, so week after week, regular as clockwork, I sit through his meddling attempts to manipulate the course of my life. All the while I bleat my meaningless answers to this aspirant shepherd's pointless questions and feign progress. I can no longer stand to look upon that old man's faithless features, but I hide my disgust as well as I am able—which is to say, exceptionally well.

One thing for which I will always be grateful to Professor Dumbledore, of course, is teaching me about Occlumency. When he first suggested that I learn this obscure branch of magic to help with my imaginary "condition," I don't think he realised what a formidable weapon he was handing me. Another old man's mistake, but a much more vital one.

If I have had any real counselling this past year, it has come from Lucius Malfoy during Hogsmeade weekends. Since he and Narcissa Black announced their engagement, he visits the village regularly, and I must admit to being glad of the company, as many of my friends have since moved on. Avery and Wilkes left after the end of sixth year, deciding that attempting NEWTs wasn't worth their time—especially since each of them already has a job in his father's firm. Bellatrix Black left then, as well, though she also comes back to visit Lestrange. I believe they will be announcing their engagement any day now, as well, though the fact that they would be getting married has been well known to everyone in Slytherin House for at least a year.

Why Malfoy wished to talk to me nearly as much as his own fiancée puzzled me at first, I must admit. He barely noticed me when I was a first and second year, but things change. And his reason became clear soon enough. Apparently he hates the headmaster every bit as much as I do. He's listened patiently to all my ranting, though I've conveniently refrained from saying anything that borders on a mention of mental illness. Thankfully I have more than enough material without having to call my stability into question.

If I am indeed unstable, that is. I don't think I am. I don't think I ever was. Amazing what a powerful man like Dumbledore can accomplish with a concerted effort involving his staff and a few choice potions. They fooled me for the better part of a year, not counting the time they imprisoned me in an attempt to break my will. If I was even in the hospital wing for just a year. I could have been there much longer. I may never know.

One thing I do know, however, is that my NEWTs are now less than two months away. After that, I shall be free of the suffocating walls of Dumbledore's stone prison forever. And with that happy thought, I clink my glass of Ogden's against Malfoy's and grin. I can endure anyone for two months. Of that I'm certain.


	7. Death Eater

Polonius: My honourable lord, I will most humbly take / my leave of you.  
Hamlet: You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more / willingly part withal—except my life... — _Hamlet_, Act II, Scene 2

**Death Eater**

Another year has come and gone. After the joyous end of term feast last night, this morning I watch from my office window as my pupils once again board the Hogwarts Express in Hogsmeade, many of them never to return. One can but grow a bit wistful at times like this, when another crop of seventh years leaves. Having known them since they were all eleven, I cannot help being proud of the young witches and wizards they have become. Yet I sometimes wonder if we have ever truly prepared them for the world outside these walls.

As the scarlet steam engine starts its laborious journey south, two pupils in particular occupy my thoughts more than the rest. Remus Lupin is, as far as I know, the first and only werewolf ever to become a fully qualified wizard. Many other qualified wizarding werewolves also exist, but all of them completed their education prior to being bitten, so in this way Remus is unique, even amongst Hogwarts students. Despite the forecasts of doom and gloom, he has done exceptionally well. In fact, I would not be surprised in the least to see that he has earned an Outstanding on his Defence NEWT when the scores arrive here in a couple of weeks.

Some of the staff railed against the idea of having a werewolf attend Hogwarts, saying that he would eat the other children for breakfast. I therefore acquired an old, abandoned house in Hogsmeade, had a tunnel dug from the school grounds leading to the place, and obtained a Whomping Willow to plant over the entrance, all to keep the students safe during his transformations. When that issue was quite taken care of, those members of the staff still did not care to have a werewolf here, but they could provide no rational objections. They regarded him with suspicion and loathing for seven years, even though I daresay one would have to look far and wide to find a kinder, gentler soul than Remus Lupin.

Although I have been blessed with many powers, I often wish that among them was the ability to make others see the truth.

If not for one small wrinkle since his first year, I would call Remus' attendance at this school an unqualified success. That wrinkle is, of course, the prank Sirius played on Severus early in their sixth year. Minerva took me to task for letting Sirius "get away" with such a thing, as I recall. Even after I asked her advice in the matter, however, neither of us could envision a scenario in which Sirius' expulsion would not lead to Remus' secret coming out. Therefore in the stead of doling out the harshest penalty available, and inadvertently also punishing Remus for Sirius' mistake in the process, we had to content ourselves with many smaller punishments just short of expulsion. As a fully qualified wizard with his secret still intact, Remus at least has a fair chance. I do wish him all the best.

The other pupil whose situation weighs heavily on my mind is, of course, Severus. In the eighteen months since his schizophrenia was first diagnosed, he has made amazing progress, not only with his study of Transfiguration and Occlumency, but also in identifying the features of his hallucinations and understanding that his delusions may still plague him, even when he is taking his potions regularly, alas. I daresay he has many more obstacles ahead of him in life, however—more so than the rest of the seventh years who leave here today. Have I provided him with the tools to control his condition on a daily basis? I hope I have, but only time will tell.

And yet, in the past few months something about Severus' manner has troubled me. Something I cannot quite put my finger on. He has been most distracted in our counselling sessions of late. Naturally he would have had other things on his mind prior to taking his NEWTs, but even afterward, as in our session this past Wednesday, he seemed as if there was somewhere else he would very much like to be. He could have simply grown weary of discussing anything with such an old codger as myself. As scintillating as I like to think my society is, I am certain it is not nearly as entertaining when viewed through the eyes of youth.

Perhaps I am merely reading too much into the Bloody Baron's reports. His Excellency has told me that Severus walked a bit unsteadily upon returning to the Slytherin common room after the last two Hogsmeade weekends of term. Far be it from me to begrudge the boy a little merry-making after all he has been through in the past year and a half, but I cannot help being concerned. Although Severus may be thin, he is by no means slight, and I very much doubt it is physically possible for him to have consumed enough butterbeer to put him in such a state. I sincerely hope he was merely alleviating a bit of the stress associated with his NEWTs. In view of his condition, habitual inebriation on his part could prove disastrous.

~*~*~#~*~*~

Lucius pours two glasses of Ogden's on the rocks and hands one to me. He invited me to Wiltshire, ostensibly, in order to celebrate my Outstanding NEWTs in both Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts. Though from his smirk, I imagine he has something else on his mind, as well. Not that I care especially. I've had little cause to celebrate for many months now.

I take the proffered glass and stare down into the amber liquid. Once again in the back of my mind an unwelcome reminder of something Madam Pomfrey once said about not indulging in anything stronger than elf-made wine or butterbeer rears its ugly head. But I quickly tell that thought, as well as everything else the school nurse ever told me, that it can go to hell.

"Piss off, Madam Pomfrey," I murmur into the glass before tipping it back.

After I've downed the contents, I notice that Lucius regards me with a curious expression. "What was that?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

"Hmm?"

"I could've sworn you said something."

"Oh." I shrug noncommittally. "I was just—talking to myself."

He smirks again. "You'll want to be careful with that, Severus," he says, pointing a playfully warning finger at me from the hand holding his glass. "People might start to think you're mad."

You have no idea, I think ruefully, but I smile nonetheless.

And he doesn't. Have any idea, I mean. I know Lucius hates Dumbledore as much as I do, but not even he could imagine the lengths to which the headmaster was willing to go to rein me in. He wanted to repress my individuality, to turn me into another docile pupil who would accept his assertions that Muggles are harmless as an axiom and wouldn't make trouble. What were those potions that old cow Pomfrey pumped into me, other than an attempt to keep me complaisant and passive? And such "help" perverted me into a mere shadow of the person I used to be. I know perfectly well what he was up to, and I'll be damned if I shall ever willingly submit to his mind control again.

Once I almost allowed them to extinguish the unique spark that is Severus Snape. Never again.

I smile briefly at Lucius before I refill my glass. He returns my smile and then waves an elegant hand toward the crystal decanter, as if telling me to help myself. So I do. In fact, I finish off my third glass before either of us speaks again.

"Nice to get out of that place, isn't it?" he asks, stretching into the depths of an expensive wing backed chair and placing his feet up on the ottoman.

I turn to him and raise an eyebrow. "Indeed."

Instead of popping up and down to refill my glass, I set the decanter on the table between us and sink into the other chair. We talk about anything, everything, and nothing at all for the next couple of hours. It feels good to have a real conversation again, without the mind-numbing effects of potions slurring my thoughts as the Ogden's is now slurring my speech. I think I may have drunk a bit too much, in fact, because before long Lucius says I look green, and he leads me to the toilet with an amused if patient expression. He barely has time to lift the seat before I've retched in the bowl and on his perfectly manicured hands. I know the look that greets me now, as well: the nose wrinkling with distaste, followed by a curling lip.

I fumble for my wand in the pocket of my robes to cast Scourgify, but he stops me, smearing my vomit on my chest, and draws his own. Lucius takes to being soiled about as well as a cat to water, but once he's cleaned up, his good humour returns. And he smirks a little when he says it's good to see me enjoying myself again.

I hiccup and reply that I'll try not to be so exuberant all over him the next time.

Lucius then arranges me around the toilet—so he can safely leave me alone for a bit to get a wet cloth, he says. I don't think I'm being very co-operative, because I feel if I let go, the room will tumble and send me sliding off the face of the planet. But finally he convinces me that will not happen, and I lean my head against the cool porcelain where he's placed me.

"I'm going to the lavatory now, Severus," he announces—slowly—as he stands. "You think you'll be all right?"

I start to nod, but that makes me feel dizzy. So then I try to answer with my mouth, only to burp and taste more vomit in the process. Though I really shouldn't have drunk so much, it's been ages since I could have more than a glass or two without arousing suspicions.

When Lucius reaches the lavatory, what I see suddenly ensures that I am completely sober. The silver stream that springs forth from the tap and over his hands jumps out of the basin. The liquid rushes down the side of the counter and straight for me. Once the silver hits the floor, it rolls and beads with one accord as it races towards my side of the bathroom. My lips tremble with terror, but as I open my mouth to scream, a cool cloth without a trace of silver touches my forehead. Lucius is kneeling next to me, looking very concerned.

"Are you about to be sick again?" he asks softly, as if afraid to startle me, whilst mopping my clammy skin. "You look deathly pale."

With the wetted cloth, he brushes my hair back from my brow—hair stuck to my skin with ice cold sweat. I take a long, shuddering breath and then somehow manage to shake my head.

"N-no, Lu-ucius," I stammer, my still frightened mouth finally deigning to co-operate. "I'm f-fine now ... I think."

Half his mouth quirks upward in a characteristic, well-bred smirk. "D'you think you can keep down a hangover potion?" he asks, surprisingly gently, still swabbing my face and neck with the cloth.

Somehow I find both the strength and the determination to nod. Lucius again arranges my pliant body—this time drawing my legs up to my chest, hooking my arms 'round my shins, and laying my forehead on my knees. He gingerly lifts my hair and drapes the washcloth over my neck before hurrying from the room. I wake with a start to his calling my name an undetermined amount of time later, after I've been moved to a bed. A thin, cherry-flavoured concoction then pours into my obedient mouth, and I try my best to swallow. The last thing I note as Lucius turns me on my side before I drift off is that the potion tastes almost flawless. Narcissa must have made this. As much as I admire him, Lucius is a hopeless brewer.

The next thing I know, it's morning. The delicious aroma of bacon and Turkish coffee awakens me. The bed has crisp, white sheets—thicker and heavier than any I've ever felt. Everything around me is so soft and warm: down pillows, down coverlet, probably even a down mattress. As I turn over and snuggle into this heavenly comfort, I thank every higher power I can think of in my sleepy state that Lucius Malfoy finds me amusing. Otherwise I'd never experience such excesses of wealth first hand.

A thud and high-pitched squeal just outside the door serve to jolt me back from my reverie.

"Last night I told you Severus had too much to drink, and I wanted his breakfast waiting for him when he woke up!"

Another thud and a piercing shriek follow Lucius' cry, accompanied by the unmistakable clatter of dishes. The house-elf has apparently displeased his master again.

"Dobby is trying to take Master Severus his breakfast, sir," he pleads—quite unsuccessfully.

"Give it to me!" Lucius commands.

A soft rattle of china signals that the elf has handed over the tray, followed by a crunching sound, a scream, and another thud some distance away. Lucius apparently kicked Dobby a considerable way down the hall. I sit up, smiling and shaking my head as the door opens. When will that wretched brown git learn?

"Good morning, Severus," Lucius says as he sets the tray in my lap. "How are you feeling?"

Narcissa's potion having worked its magic, I feel rested, though still sleepy, but not the least bit hung-over. I am ravenous and parched, however, so I already have a bite of scrambled eggs in and the tumbler of orange juice halfway to my mouth before answering.

"Fine," I mumble, the words muffled by my mouthful of food. I swallow and repeat the same sentiment a second later.

Lucius smirks again. "Good. I was hoping you'd be up to continuing the conversation we began last night." My confusion must show on my face because he cocks his head to one side as he lowers himself onto the edge of the expansive bed. "Don't you remember what we discussed?"

I blink for a moment, frowning. My mind is a fog. I clearly remember that we did talk, but about what, I've no idea. I must have drunk a great deal more than I thought.

"Not a damn word," I admit at last with a slight shake of my head.

He grins then. He actually grins. And I find myself wanting to wrap that look up and put it in my pocket to preserve his expression for posterity.

"Well, we talked about Muggles and Mudbloods for a bit ... and why you don't like them."

I frown again—worse this time. I hope I didn't embarrass myself the night before. I do wish I could remember.

"You were ... very persuasive."

He's still smiling, so I can only assume I must have made a fool of myself. But at least he found the evening entertaining.

"In fact, I think there's someone you should meet."

My eyes resume their blinking, but for a different reason now. Something in what he's just said strikes me as not quite right, though I cannot quite work out what. I feel as if the puzzle is hovering mere inches out of my reach, and if I were only taller, I might be able to grasp it. After a moment I give up trying, consoling myself with the fact that Lucius wishes to introduce me to someone he thinks important.

"Who?"

Only an enigmatic smile answers me. That's no surprise. In the six years I've known him, if there's one thing I've learnt, it is that Lucius enjoys being mysterious. He does eventually tell me who I am to meet, and why, but the news comes long after I've finished my breakfast. Two weeks after, in fact. Then, following another week of what I can only call "training," I'm invited to the manor for dinner and drinks ... and, of course, to meet He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Despite Lucius' description, I'll admit he isn't quite as I'd pictured—this red-eyed, flat-nosed abomination who considers himself the saviour of the wizarding world. I try not to flinch back at the sight of him when he lowers his hood, but Lucius assures me that it's all right.

"Severus Snape, my Lord," he adds, bowing slightly as he urges me forward with the light touch of a hand on my lower back.

"I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Severus," You-Know-Who says with soft words, extending a skeleton-like white hand. "Lucius has told me so much about you."

I know I should be nervous. After all, it isn't every day one meets a wizard who fancies himself a Dark Lord. But something about the familiarity of his sibilant speech reminds me of my Lord Slytherin and puts me instantly at ease. As I shake his hand, I wonder idly if he is another Parselmouth like me.

"Likewise, sir," I answer, with a gratified smile.

The conversation that follows over dinner is some of the most interesting I can remember in many years. This man has fascinating plans to rid the world of the many Muggles, Mudbloods, and Muggle-lovers. So I think I will join forces with him ... at least for a while. He's already laid a great deal of the groundwork. But once I'm inside the organisation, everybody will see that I am Slytherin's Heir. It won't be long before I take over.

When he's swallowed his final sip of wine, You-Know-Who turns to me. "So, Severus..." The skeletal hand sets down the glass. "Have you made your decision?"

I look directly into those glowing red eyes and smile. "I have." The "my Lord" I tack on a second later tells him what I've decided, as well.

"You are prepared to join me?" he continues quietly, though his voice has taken on a cold edge. "To fight, and if needs be to die, for me?"

"I am."

He holds my unflinching gaze for a moment before turning to Lucius. "Where is Nagini?"

"She was exploring the library, my Lord, when last I heard her."

"Very well," the Dark Lord says, rising. "Then we should adjourn to the library, so that we may begin our young friend's initiation."

When we file into the library, I see a hint of a diamond-patterned tail whip underneath the sofa and out of sight. Nagini is apparently shy. The Dark Lord opens his mouth, and an unearthly hiss issues forth. The snake then dutifully slithers out from her hiding place. So he is a Parselmouth, and Nagini soon rears up to do whatever bidding her master has asked. Even as Lucius pulls up my left sleeve, and I begin to wonder what a snake has to do with my becoming a Death Eater, the Dark Lord catches my right wrist in an icy grip. I do not wonder long, for a second later Nagini strikes, clamping onto my left forearm. Fangs deftly pierce my flesh, perfectly bisecting the space between bone and bone. The jaws clench around my arm, and even through the burn of venom coursing into my veins, I feel the tickle of the serpent's tongue on my skin.

The two square inches of my skin that the snake bites feel as if they're being burnt with red hot coals whilst stung by a thousand bees. What seems an eternity later, it occurs to be that I shouldn't still be awake. I know I should have fainted long before this—from shock or pain or the sheer volume of venom that has been pumped into me. But I realise, through that vice-like grip on my other arm, the Dark Lord is keeping me awake and aware. It wouldn't do to sleep through my initiation, after all.

"Enough," he breathes finally.

The snake lets go and drops to the floor, as I sway on unsteady legs. Lucius steps up behind me then and steadies me with his arms about my ribs. How I recognise his signet ring through my blurred, swimming vision, I'm not sure, but I know Lucius would never let me fall.

The Dark Lord smiles, reaching for my left arm now. He raises his wand and cuts my flesh between the punctures left by the snake's fangs. My arm rises to his mouth, though whether he or I lifted it, I'm not sure. He sucks out the venom and the blood that gushes from the wound and swallows them both. Then once again he raises his wand, this time to cauterise the wound, whispering a soft incantation through lips that drip my blood. The last thing that crosses my mind is recalling that smell I had on my hands so long ago in Transfiguration, and how similar the odour is to that of my own charred flesh.

And then I know no more.

When I wake, I'm lying flat on my back whilst someone mops my fevered brow. I groan as my eyes flutter open. Lucius sets the cloth down on the bedside table, rises, and walks quickly out of the line of what little sight I possess.

"He's awake, my Lord," I hear him whisper. More feet then approach the bed, and I force my eyes to remain open. They seem not to want to co-operate.

"I have drunk in your life and what should have meant your death," the high, cold voice proclaims without preamble. "You now belong to me, Severus. We are joined through the bonds of blood, venom, and Dark magic. Welcome to the fold." Then he's gone, and Lucius resumes his seat beside me on the bed.

"You're lucky you're so young, Severus," he says as he resumes wiping my brow. "I've seen older men take the Mark and never wake from the resulting coma."

Though my swollen throat feels as though it's full of gravel, I manage to grind out two words before the pain stops me: "How long—?"

Lucius pauses to rewet the cloth before answering. The cool water is an oasis against my desert skin. "Two days."

I try to sit up, shocked at the length of my absence from reality—much longer than I've ever been unaware of the passage of time before. Lucius arrests my movement all too easily with just a hand on my shoulder. I am much weaker than I feel.

"Rest now. You need to regain your strength." He reaches for a flask on the bedside table and flips the cork off with his thumb whilst slipping his other hand behind my neck to lift my head. "Drink this. It should help. And try not to move. You still have a little venom in your system. The less you move, the less will make it to your heart."

The potion smells like a sleeping draught, but slightly off. Then again, the peculiar odour could just be more lies from my traitorous nostrils. After all, Lucius is my friend. He'd never give me anything harmful.

I take a small swallow—as much as my aching throat will allow. The liquid is thick and sweet but cool, and it numbs my throat as it descends. So I take another larger swallow. When I've drunk the whole flask full, I realise my stomach is sated, though I hadn't been completely aware of the burning hunger before its departure. Probably too many other pains were demanding my attention. My eyelids droop, and Lucius wipes my forehead again.

It never occurred to me before that Lucius could be so kind. His solution to every problem seemed either to be to sneer at the triviality of the situation or to throw gold at those involved in an ostentatious display not unlike a peacock. As I drift off to sleep, my mind vaguely registers the idea that I rather like the change.

~*~*~#~*~*~

Finally the NEWT scores for my long-departed class of seventh years have arrived, along with the committee's profoundest apologies for the delay. I imagine the ink on the parchment was scarcely dry before Severus landed himself a prestigious job at the Department of Mysteries. Although he himself would likely be hard pressed to tell me, I would bet my last Knut that he is doing Potions research. And I would wager my penultimate Knut that Lucius Malfoy's influence was integral to Severus' securing that post. "Outstanding" NEWT or not, men of eighteen rarely become Unspeakables.

I should not be surprised that Lucius and Severus have become close. They have a great deal in common: both powerful young wizards, and both highly interested in the Dark Arts, as well, although in Severus' case that interest has always had a "fighting fire with fire" slant. Alas, I can honestly say I have no such assurances regarding Mr Malfoy.

I suppose it was too much to hope that Severus would occasionally come back to Hogwarts to visit. He no doubt relishes the freedom of being out of school and finally on his own. And yet, not so much as an owl to say, "Hello, Headmaster. I am all right." I cannot force him to come and see me for counselling, of course, however much I might want to do so. More's the pity. I have a feeling he could use someone to listen to his troubles.

Since I was in charge of his family finances for a spell, I should not be surprised that his creditors have written to me. He is not in debt as of yet, but they say he has been spending what little gold his mother left him as if Gringotts were going to close down tomorrow. If there was something I could do, I would do it. Once he turned seventeen, there was nothing I could do from a legal standpoint. Apart from having him declared mentally incompetent due to his condition, that is. I truly hope it doesn't come to that.


	8. Decompensation

Sith nor th' exterior nor the inward man / Resembles that it was. What it should be / More than his father's death, that thus hath put him / So much from th' understanding of himself / I cannot dream of. — _Hamlet_, Act II, Scene 2

**Decompensation**

Dinners in Wiltshire have always been one of my favourite pastimes, even if I can't always make out what my hosts say over the Muggles' chatter. In the library over coffee and brandy, Narcissa turns toward me and smiles. I barely flinch when her face transforms into a mask of cracked corn with bits that fall onto the perfectly glossed rose of her lips and the satin in her lap.

I wonder how well corn goes with Mozart.

When she asks if I want to hold Draco, I tell her no. I want to, of course. He's so sweet and beautiful and perfect, but I can't hold him. I don't tell her why, because she'd only look at me that way again. Though I do pet his perfect silver head. Good thing, that. The Muggles can't control him with that fair hair.

Those blasted electricity-mongers! Why can't they leave me alone?

My robes don't seem to be working any more. I endured their constant prattle for a full year before I read that black absorbs more electromagnetic radiation than any other colour. With my black hair, I was an easy target for their transmissions. After I'd worked out the secret, I started wearing only black, so my robes could diffuse the rays and keep more of them from reaching my head. I could tell a difference for a while, but the Muggles have now caught on, so I'll have to find another way to defeat their plans.

Pity I can't go about with a cauldron on my head all day. That might make it harder for them to control me. At least for a while—until they've found a way around that, as well. Though the Ogden's seems to help.

Lucius and Narcissa are going to the opera tonight, and they've asked me to sit with Draco whilst they're out. Apparently they are between nannies at the moment. Not that Narcissa would be excessively picky. Oh no! She smiles again, causing more bits of corn to shower into her lap, as she tells me that a good Squib is hard to find.

I'll have to have Cliodna spayed. The last time she had kittens, the afterbirth came out of my mouth. I certainly don't want to go through that again.

I don't mind sitting with Draco at all. I love this sweet baby so much that my chest feels as though it will burst. When his little fist grasps one of my fingers, I want to pick him up and whisk him away from all the troubles of life. But I can't. These hands are simply too small. I might drop him.

Not long after the green light fades, I hear scratching. I can't see them yet, but I feel them drawing nearer with my every breath. I won't let them hurt you, Draco. I promise.

I'm afraid to carry his bassinet, but I feel certain I can levitate the thing with no trouble, so I take him to the cellar. Surely they won't find us there. Unfortunately the scratching grows ever louder once I've shut and barred the door behind me. I'm almost afraid to light the torches, but I have to find them.

When I do, I see them everywhere: silver beetles crawling all over Draco's bassinet. In his nose and out his mouth. I try my best to dig them out, lest they choke him, and he screams at the top of his little lungs. He is scarcely two weeks old, and I won't let his life be lost to these silver scarabs that continually haunt me.

I can't hex them, as I might hit the baby as well, but I do try to Banish them. They turn on me then, in an angry silver swarm, invading my nose and mouth instead. But at least they've left poor Draco alone.

The next thing I know, Lucius has my arm in a grip like a vice, pulling me backward and away from the baby. Draco is screaming again, as Narcissa rocks and coos to him whilst Lucius stares at me with a puzzled expression. I can't imagine why. I was only trying to protect him.

They don't ask me to look after Draco again.

~*~*~#~*~*~

I wish I knew where Severus is. I have not heard from him since July last, and I am growing increasingly worried about the boy. For some reason, I cannot help thinking of him as a boy still, even though he must be twenty now. Despite not having heard from him, I have heard troubling things about him. He has been dismissed from his post at the Department of Mysteries, and his assets have been seized to cover his ever-mounting debt. I doubt there is even enough in his Gringotts vault to pay for his mother's care.

When they forced the door to his home, he was nowhere to be found. What they did find, however, was equally disturbing: mountains of rotting cat food piled in a bowl, and rubbish sacks full of pristine litter. Apparently he has once again been imagining that his cat never died.

And now I find myself at an auction of the contents of his home. I hope to salvage as many of his personals as I can afford, in the vain hope that I may one day see him again to return them. One familiar face in the crowd immediately catches my attention: Lucius Malfoy. I can only guess why he is here, but something tells me his aim is not anywhere near altruistic as mine. Once the bidding starts, his motive begins to present itself. He is interested in any shall we say less than innocuous books in the family's library, as well as brewing materials and prepared potions. No doubt he hopes to find some poisons hidden amongst these phials, and his wife has the skills to discern the riches from the refuse.

I know it would pain Severus to lose all these things, but I must save my meagre resources for more important items ... namely a particular portrait I am certain will be on the block today. I do not even waste ten Knuts on the battered Occlumency book I gave him so long ago, deciding to slip another copy from my collection into his things. He will never be any the wiser.

And there it is: lot number seventy-three. Lucius' lip curls when he realises that I am determined to add this portrait to my day's plunder, and he bids against me with a vengeance, pale nostrils flaring with each nod of his head. I cannot compete with the Malfoy fortune, of course, but seeing as he is so young, I doubt Lucius has heard of Everard Prince. Not even Severus knows the portrait that hung so long in his home was of such a famous Auror and former Headmaster of Hogwarts, but I am loath to think of its being thrown out or destroyed. I cannot imagine the thrill of winning alone would prompt Lucius to spend an exorbitant sum for a memento of one of Severus' distant relatives.

In the end it appears that I am correct: the gavel comes down on my final bid of six hundred and fifty Galleons, whilst Lucius thumbs through his programme as if he could not care less. Unfortunately, the house itself is too rich for my purse, so he snatches that up easily. As I have never known him to be especially interested in real estate for its own sake, perhaps he will allow Severus to buy his family home back one day.

Once I've returned to Hogwarts, I take my purchases into my private study. The subject of the portrait blinks and shields his eyes when I have pulled the brown paper from around his frame. "Dumbledore?"

"Hello, Everard."

"Where am I?" He leans forward as far as he can inside the canvas to take in his surroundings. "I thought I was in Liverpool."

I nod slowly and pull up another chair in front of the one where I have balanced him for now. "You were. I take it you slept through the entire auction?"

He raises an incredulous eyebrow, looking startlingly like his great grandson in the process. "What has that boy done now?"

I frown and press my fingertips together. "Funny you should say that, since I was about to ask you something remarkably similar."

His other eyebrow rises now, as well, and then he frowns.

"How long has it been since you have seen Severus?"

His frown deepens. "A fortnight, at least."

"And how did he act?"

"Now you mention it ... very strange. Disturbed..." He pauses and closes his eyes, as if trying to picture the scene in his mind. "Walking oddly, as if he had weights on his ankles, and muttering to himself with his hands clenched into fists..."

I nod solemnly. Alas, I had suspected as much, but to hear a confirmation makes me sadder still. When I look up, Everard is eyeing me with suspicion.

"You know something, Dumbledore. Tell me!"

After a long, slow breath, I begin to explain. I feel certain that Eileen would have wanted him to know everything.

~*~*~#~*~*~

I am Alpha and Omega—both the merciless and the one who begs for mercy.

Black mutters something under his breath as I pass him. I didn't hear what he said, but I didn't have to. I know what he meant. Purchasing a handful of his robes, I slam him against the wall and wrap my fingers in the material until I can lift the little invertebrate off his feet. He's on tiptoes now, and I twist the fabric until his eyes bug.

"You've always had it in from Cliodna!" I hiss at the reddening face before. "If I ever hear you say anything about my cat again, you will be very sorry indeed."

"Kill him, Ssseverusss..."

I pull him back and slam him hard against the stone until silver blood trickles down his forehead from underneath his hair. But soon enough I tire, despite Slytherin's command. I drop him and continue down the hall to my room, each of my thunderous footsteps punctuated by a gasp or sputter or cough from behind me. Only after I've closed the door and leant against the wood do I realise my cat is dead. And I am certain that Regulus Black killed her. Just like your brother, aren't you, Black? You'll pay for that. Just you wait.

Perhaps I should have listened to my Lord Slytherin and killed you on the spot.

My clenched hands are covered in blood, and my robes are soaked, as well. I don't feel any pain, but I cannot suppress a stabbing fear, and I run to the lavatory, stripping off my clothes as I go. I have to find out where I'm bleeding. Though I've washed until the water runs clear and all traces of blood are gone, I find nothing. No wounds. Not so much as a scratch. I close my tired eyes with a sigh.

When I open them again, the water has transformed. Now silver rushes from the tap, and even after I've backed away, it crawls over the edge of the tub, then leaps to the floor, rolling across the tiles toward me. My back strikes the lavatory door, and the silver water starts to wend its way up my leg. I slap at my skin to get it off me, but I'm not quick enough. It simply breaks into smaller beads that continue to scale my body, so I try to at least scrape it off my torso and neck before it reaches my mouth.

"Snape! Snape! Are you in there? Where the hell could he be?"

I shake my head. The silver is gone, but someone is banging on my chamber door, as if trying to break it down. I quickly leave the lavatory to go answer, while my door is still attached to the hinges.

"Yes?" I say, a bit testily, after I've finally stopped the damned knocking. Rosier's eyes widen, and I've just realised that I have forgotten to dress. Thankfully, my cloak is within easy reach on a hook behind the door, so I retrieve the thing and wrap the fabric around myself. "What do you want?"

He gives me a contemptuous look. "I'm the one who's been knocking for fifteen minutes. What do you have to be so annoyed about?"

"I was asleep," I grumble.

"Must be nice," he mutters, already turning to go. "The Dark Lord wants to see you. And for Merlin's sake, put something on."

~*~*~#~*~*~

I have scrutinised every newspaper I can think of, and not even a whisper of what might have become of Severus. Is he dead? I know Poppy said his disorder would not kill him, but he may have found himself in a duel that he could not handle, or he could have attacked someone and landed himself in a Muggle gaol, or heaven knows what. At least I know he hasn't attempted to take his own life, or he would have come back here. Then again, perhaps not. Can I even be certain that my spell worked?

Everard has been kind enough to keep watch for any trace of him at the Ministry. If he attacked a witch or wizard, I am certain he would have been taken there. Unless he is working for Voldemort, that is. I shake my head and rub my tired eyes. I do not want to think that Riddle has the boy in his clutches. In his demented state, he would have been easy prey, but would Tom want a lunatic in his ranks? At least I cannot imagine he would give Severus a pass simply because he was not in his right mind when he joined up. Of course, Tom Riddle is a bit on the insane side himself, so why should he not surround himself with madmen?

A soft knock sounds on my door, and Professor McGonagall enters, carrying a tea tray. She has been worried about me lately, and it is no wonder why. I have been worried sick myself, and I've not had a proper meal or a restful night's sleep in weeks. Why did I not think to plant some sort of tracking device on Severus before I sent him off into the world?

After she has poured my tea, Minerva lifts the saucer and moulds my unobliging hand around the cup. Protesting would do no good, I fear, as I know that determined look all too well. So I nod and take a sip, then nibble a biscuit, though I haven't the slightest interest in food.

"He'll turn up, Albus," she says gently, patting my forearm. "Don't lose heart."

Against every odd imaginable, I hope with every fibre of my being that she is right.

~*~*~#~*~*~

The Ogden's isn't helping any more. Muggles in my head, day and night. What would the Dark Lord say? He wouldn't want a follower who's being controlled by Muggles. He'd kill me just as soon as listen to my excuses.

I keep looking behind me to make certain there's no one following, but the whispers. No, I don't want any coffee, you daft cow!

"You bloody freak! You've killed your mother!"

It won't bring her back.

I can't take this any longer, but what's out there may be worse. It must be here somewhere. But nothing looks or smells right. I don't recognise a thing. These bottles all shimmer and mock me with their shiny surfaces and mysterious contents. I pull things off the shelves left and right, frantic to find the proper one.

These shelves have never been such a mess! What an insufferable lack of organisation! I used to know where everything was.

"Yes, Prime Minister. I have the forms here."

I had a perfect system. Somebody has been mucking about with my things! Have the Muggles been here? Or those damned Gryffindors again?

I'll show them. I'll make them pay. All of them! I am the One, and I shall make them pay!

Tired. So tired.

The Muggles are getting closer. I can smell them. But I can't stop now.

"Take it, Ssseveruss. It'sss yoursss."

Give it to me, you filthy Muggle! It's mine, not yours! I've earned it!

"Well, it's more the fact that he exists, if you know what I mean..."

_Sectumsempra!_

I slash my wand through the air, splitting his chest like an over-ripened melon. Take that, Potter! I hope you die and rot in hell!

"Ssshow them my power. Kill yourssself."

I try to obey, but I can't. I'm afraid, my Lord.

He only laughs at me.

Ophelia smiles, twirling the skirt of her little grey robes. She holds out her hand, presenting me with a daisy that she tucks behind the ear. Then she takes this hand and leads me through the broken glass and out the door, between the winged boars. I hope her feet aren't cut.

"Sleep, Sevwus."

I curl up on the floor with my baby sister in these arms. I've missed you, Ophelia. Thank you for taking pity on me.

~*~*~#~*~*~

On my way downstairs to procure some hot chocolate, I run into Severus—quite literally. My quick steps cause me to give him a light kick to the chest before I am even fully aware of the recumbent form obstructing my path. He must have wanted to see me rather badly to have camped out in front of the stone gargoyle guarding my office. Head pillowed on his hands, he lies directly on the floor, with his fingers wrapped in the cloak to keep them warm. And as always, his hair hangs in his face. One ear is the only part of him not shrouded in black. Little wonder I did not notice him until I had stumbled over him, although my treading on him does not seem to have deterred him. He grunts and shifts but sleeps on.

After several months with no word of him, my relief at finding him on my very doorstep is a bit overwhelming—not in the least because two nights ago a young man matching his description was apprehended for demolishing an apothecary in the Muggle part of London. When the police attempted to detain him, however, he flung terrible curses at them and Disapparated. I could only hope he had not splinched himself somewhere. And last week, another sallow-skinned, black-haired young man was arrested for exposing himself in a train station. He was successfully taken to gaol but Disapparated before he could appear in court. Those reports were mildly unsettling, but I found myself hoping that the incidents did indeed involve Severus, if only as proof that he was still alive.

Something about the way he looks reminds me uncomfortably of vagrants that I have seen sleeping in the London Underground. My heart bleeds for him, and I kneel down to wake him. At once I know he has been lax in taking his potions, as he looks and smells terrible—a piquant blend of various bodily odours, urine, train exhaust, and whiskey.

"Severus?" I ask, whilst attempting to rouse him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. He finally stirs and blinks at me, although he does not appear to know who I am. "What are you doing here, m'boy?"

He mumbles slowly in response, as if each syllable requires tremendous thought and effort. "Midn' ... care ... snow..."

I am surprised at how quickly my mind fills in the blanks to string these words together into a coherent message. Somehow I am attuned to him in ways I do not completely understand, most likely from having once taken up residence, however briefly, in his mind.

"You didn't know where else to go?"

His glassy stare penetrates me for a moment, and then he nods, which also appears to be an almost insurmountable task. "Mead ... nubble..."

I blink for a moment, before I put it together that he has likely been looking for me. "You've found me, Severus. It's Professor Dumbledore. I am right here."

"Nubmle ... ore?"

"Yes, Severus. I'm right here."

He smiles then—that same eerie smile from long ago that does not include his eyes—and, strangely, he lays his head on my shoulder, which brings a tear to my eye. Over the years I have come to look on my students as my own children, even long after they have left school, and this prodigal son in particular has oft pervaded my thoughts. Instead of killing a fatted calf for a feast, however, I feel a visit to the hospital wing would be a more fitting celebration of his return.

"Can you stand, m'boy?"

He moves his head around in all different directions. I cannot be certain, of course, but I think that he is attempting to nod again and having much less luck than before. I do not wait for a more conclusive answer, however, and work my hands beneath his cloak to take hold of him under each arm. As I stand, I try to drag him upright. After a second or two, he seems to get the general idea; his legs shift so that he can plant his feet on the floor and push himself the rest of the way up. Good thing. I am getting a bit long in the tooth to do this the old fashioned way.

Severus accompanies me the hospital wing, docile as a mouse. The only odd thing about his demeanour—apart from his appearance, that is—is the blank expression on his face, and how he keeps looking around in all directions, from ceiling to floor. I can only imagine what he might be seeing at this precise moment, but I hope, whatever the visions are, that they do not frighten him. Normally one would judge such things from a person's expression, but if there is one thing I've learnt about Severus' condition, it is that looks can be deceiving.

Our school nurse is the lightest of sleepers. I have never been quite sure if this is natural trait on her part, or if she has trained herself to awaken at the slightest sound. Whichever is the case, Severus and I are no more than ten paces inside the empty ward before I see a dim light in her office, bleeding through from the bedchamber beyond. In mere seconds, she is at my side, taking the boy's pulse without a word, brows knitted in concentration, as I try to explain to him that he needs to lie down. Madam Pomfrey pulls a curtain closed around the bed, despite the dearth of patients, I suppose in case any of the staff happen by. A patient's privacy is always paramount in her mind.

"Do you happen to have any of the potions he needs on hand, Poppy?"

She smiles. "Of course. I had Horace set some aside for me, in case of an emergency."

A second later, she opens the curtain and steps out to retrieve the potions in question. I take the opportunity to cast some cleaning charms on Severus' body and clothes in her short absence. He looks and smells a great deal better when Poppy returns a few minutes later. I then conjure some straps to keep him still, whilst Madam Pomfrey rolls up his sleeve to administer his potions.

"Good heavens!"

As she yelps, she drops his arm and jumps backward, as if his skin has scalded her. Her wand clatters on the floor, and she pales, backing away from the bed, with her hands held up in front of her, in a gesture of warding off something evil. I quickly walk around the bed to examine the boy's arm myself. There, shining red on his pale skin, is a foreboding yet regrettably all too familiar calling card: the Dark Mark. I can only shake my head sadly. This is exactly what I feared might happen.

When I step back to give the nurse access to her patient, she simply stares at him as if he were a harbinger of the Black Death.

"Poppy, the potions, please," I say, as gently and patiently as I can.

She gapes at me, and then shakes her head. "Professor Dumbledore, do you realise what these people have done?"

I take a deep breath and sigh. Then I continue, forcing my voice to remain calm. "Yes, Poppy, I do. But I also know that Severus needs your help right now, and as a Healer, you are required to treat him."

Lips pursed in extreme distaste, she glares at me, but she doesn't move. "He's a Death Eater!" she hisses, her tone more venomous than I have ever heard it. "They can all go to the Devil together, for all I care!"

Even after another deep breath, I find that I must work very hard to keep my voice calm. I don't succeed entirely. "Until Severus is lucid enough to tell us how this Mark came to be on his arm, we should treat it as a consequence of his schizophrenia."

She shakes her head again, though her expression softens a little.

"This is a symptom, Poppy—nothing more. And we both know that Severus is a very sick young man."

"Obviously!" she snaps, going rigid again.

I have almost completely lost my patience now. "Severus is here because he made a magical oath to return if he attempted suicide. This Mark clearly troubles the better wizard inside him, even if he is not aware enough of his situation to understand what he has done."

She starts to step forward but then hesitates, biting her lip.

"Please, Poppy! Help me to help him. Please?"

Before I even can note her reaction this time, Severus yelps and bucks against his restraints. The Mark on his arm has suddenly gone from bright red to black. His master is summoning him, and he is evidently in a great deal of pain, as well. He begins to mumble excitedly, but only on occasion can I pick out a few words that resemble English, and then it is something about beetles.

Bearing witnessing to this sad spectacle has apparently done more to convince Madam Pomfrey than my entreaties because she immediately bends, retrieves her wand, and steps forward to treat him. Thankfully these potions work more quickly than their Muggle counterparts, which often require a month or more to take full effect. And Madam Pomfrey already knows the proper dosages, or did when he left two years ago, so Severus should be back to normal in no time.

Whilst she attends to him, I lay a hand on his forehead, gently brushing back his hair. "He is a slave to that Mark now, Poppy," I say quietly, and neither can I keep the trace of sadness from my voice. "And he will likely remain one for the rest of his life."

She nods silently, crying now, and my eyes are rather misty, as well. The poor, poor boy.


	9. Detention

O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a / king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams. — _Hamlet_, Act II, Scene 2

**Detention**

I have returned to hell.

I hoped never to see these disgusting white walls again, but here I am, once more strapped to a mattress at wrist, ankle, waist, and—for added fun—my head, as well. And Ophelia is gone. I've lost her again.

The first few days, I was confined to the bed, but now I am allowed to move about the castle and grounds—under Dumbledore's close personal supervision, of course. My daily constitutionals, as Madam Pomfrey calls them. I cannot resist them without my wand. That cow Pomfrey also forces her vile concoctions into my veins—morning, noon, and night, so I am imprisoned within and without, with no chance of release.

Lately their mind-muddling poisons have been making me hallucinate—the very thing that Dumbledore claims they are supposed to prevent. One particular image has haunted me for most of the week: flashes of a woman with flaming red hair, screaming and pleading for her life. I feel as though I should know her, but I don't. I wish I knew what all this means. I've no idea how to find her, much less help her. I don't even know if she's still alive. And yet, I see her face repeatedly, begging me to help her. How can I do anything to help you? I don't even know who you are, you bloody Muggle fool!

"Good morning, Mr Snape!" my nursemaid twitters in her annoyingly cheerful voice, as she draws back the curtains surrounding my bed.

I only scowl. Does the old bat expect me to be pleased to see her? If she does, she'll be sorely disappointed.

"Are we feeling up to taking our potions by mouth today?"

"Leave me alone," I grumble.

"I'll take that as a 'no,' then," she says crisply, undeterred, and begins to roll up my sleeve.

"Can I at least go to the loo first?" I ask after a moment, trying my best to sound more co-operative, as I've just had an idea.

"Very well." Madam Pomfrey stops fidgeting with my sleeve and lays her wand on the edge of the bed. Foolish woman. After bending to retrieve a bedpan, she walks to the end of the bed and untucks the covers, but I shake my head.

"No, please. Let me go to the loo. By myself."

She lowers the sheet uncertainly but then shakes her head. "I'm afraid I can't, Mr Snape. Professor Dumbledore's orders. You understand..."

"No, I don't understand, Madam Pomfrey," I snap, turning my face away. "All this is supposed to be helping me lead a normal life, isn't it? Tell me: how many twenty-year-olds do you know who need someone to help them piss?"

Though I'm no longer looking at her face, I can tell we're nearly there. It's almost too simple. Healers are so easy to manipulate. Play on their sympathy, remind them of the indignities you've already had to suffer, and they are putty in your hands. I fight to keep the smirk off my face as she unbuckles the straps 'round my ankles and waist, and I whisper my barely audible thanks when she frees my wrists. She's even smiling when I take hold of her wand, whilst she unfastens the last buckle on my forehead.

I do need the loo, but that can wait until I am safely out of this prison. Before she even knows what is happening, I sit up in one quick movement, digging the tip of her own wand into her throat. She gives a quiet yelp and jumps backward, eyes going wide, and now I can repress my smirk no longer.

"You've been very helpful, Madam Pomfrey," I purr, getting to my feet. "I thank you. And if you continue to be so co-operative, I promise you won't get hurt. Now, where are my clothes?"

I doubt I would get very far in this nightshirt and my bare feet, but it appears that will not be a problem. Madam Pomfrey is much too terrified at the moment to lie.

"In ... in my office," she whispers, pointing over her shoulder with her thumb.

I jerk my head in that direction. "After you." Then, in case she is tempted to bolt, I quietly add, "Nice and slowly, if you please."

She gives an uncertain nod and turns, starting in that direction, though she glances back over her shoulder often. Inside her office, she crosses to a cupboard in the corner where she keeps her potions. After fumbling with her keys for a bit, because her hands are trembling, she opens the door and bends to retrieve a black bundle from the bottom shelf.

"Here they are," she says, holding my robes and boots out to me.

"Lay them out," I tell her, nodding toward her desk.

When I hatched this plan, I hadn't given much thought to how I was going to dress and keep her covered, but I'll think of something. Once she's finished arranging my robes on the desk, which takes a bit, since her hands are still shaking horribly, she sets my boots on the seat of her chair and hangs my cloak over the back. Then she moves away slowly, her arms folded about her waist.

"Over there," I say, pointing toward the cupboard with the tip of her wand. "And close it."

I add the last bit in case she's determined to fling something caustic on me. She dutifully walks that way, and once she's closed the cupboard, she turns back to face me and stands stock still with her hands clasped in front of her.

With one eye still on her, I undo the top few buttons of my robes—just enough to get them over my head—and slip them on over my nightshirt. I slide my arms through the sleeves, one arm at a time, so I can keep the wand trained on her. Since she hasn't tried anything foolish yet, I doubt she will, so I risk sitting to pull on my boots. When I pick up my cloak, however, my heart sinks. My wand isn't in the pocket where I'd left it.

"Where's my wand?" I ask tensely.

"I ... I don't know, Mr Snape," she says, again shaking her head. "Perhaps Professor Dumbledore..."

Damn! I should have known. Dumbledore probably has my wand locked away in his office, as extra insurance that I won't get away. I'll just have to take hers, then. Madam Pomfrey appears to take my angry expression as a threat to her safety, because she's trembling again when I turn back to face her. Well, a terrified hostage is a docile hostage. She won't cause me any trouble.

I flick the wand toward the door to indicate that we're leaving, before I drape my cloak over both my arm and the wand. If I have to curse her, a hole in my cloak would be a small price to pay for my freedom, I think. Once we're back on the ward, I grasp her robes and pull her toward me until the wand tip pokes into her liver.

"Act naturally, Madam Pomfrey," I say quietly. "We're merely going for a stroll. Don't do anything stupid, and this will all be over before you know it."

"Where are we going?" she asks in a breathy whisper, as she takes a few unsteady steps forward.

"Just to the edge of the grounds, where I can Disapparate. I'm afraid I shall have to take your wand, as well, since I no longer have access to my own. I'm sure you understand that."

She nods rapidly. "Of course."

We make it out of the ward with no problem, and Madam Pomfrey has even relaxed enough to nod in greeting to the Fat Friar when we pass him in the corridor. But when we round the corner leading to the nearest stairwell, we run headlong into Dumbledore. He smiles broadly for a second or two before he seems to register what is happening.

The game is up.

I quickly fling my cloak aside, hooking my left arm around Madam Pomfrey's throat and pressing the tip of the wand to her cheek.

"Severus..." Dumbledore begins, holding his hands up, palms facing me, and starts to take a step toward us.

"You'll stop right there, Dumbledore—if you like your nurse's head attached to her neck, that is."

"Calm down, m'boy," he says then, and foolishly comes closer.

"Don't call me that!" I hiss before I can help myself.

"I meant no offence," he says with a shake of his great silver head. "It is only a term of endearment."

"I am not your boy! I'm your prisoner!"

"I know that is how it must seem to you right now, Severus," he says gently, taking another step toward us, "but taking a prisoner of your own won't put things right. Let her go."

"No! And stay where you are!" Madam Pomfrey inhales with a shudder as I press the wand tip more firmly into her cheek. Having a prisoner of my own will put things right, if she helps me to escape.

"Please, Severus," Dumbledore whispers, and he takes another step toward us.

Damn the man! I don't want to hurt her, and he has probably worked that out by now, but I have to get out of here.

A second later, Dumbledore's eyes widen just a little, and I instinctively know somebody has walked into the passage behind me. I have barely turned to catch sight of Professor Flitwick before I hear the squeaked incantation that makes me crumple to a heap on the floor.

"_Stupefy!_"

An indeterminate amount of time later, I wake sitting in a chair in Dumbledore's office. The crook of my right arm is sore, so I know Madam Pomfrey has once again infused my veins with her potions, but oddly enough, I am not restrained. Considering what I've just done, I would have thought I wouldn't be able to leave my bed for at least another month.

I look up at a flash of lightening. Rain pounds against the windowpane behind Professor Dumbledore's desk. A sudden storm seems to have blown in, and the foul weather perfectly mirrors my mood, though it also reminds me, quite urgently, that I still need to visit the loo.

After a moment, the door opens and Professor Dumbledore enters. "Welcome back, m'boy—forgive me ... Severus," he corrects himself, moving to sit behind his desk. At least he isn't trying to pretend that nothing happened. I don't think I could bear it if he were.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" I ask with an impatient exhalation through my nose.

"What do you mean?" he asks casually, tilting his head to the side with a slight shrug.

"What are you going to do with me?" I demand.

"Do with you?" he repeats, still wearing that infuriating grin. "I see no reason to do anything in particular with you, Severus. Well..." He leans back to open a drawer, from which he removes a long, thin box. "Except to give you this." After he has set the box on the desk in front of me, I open it, and I am taken aback. I set it down again immediately, hardly daring to lift the wand within.

"I don't understand."

"I think you've earned it."

Now I cannot repress a snort. "For taking the school nurse hostage, you mean?"

"Not exactly," he says with a small chuckle, blue eyes twinkling. "For taking the school nurse hostage and conveniently forgetting to hurt her." A second later, he clears his throat. "But Madam Pomfrey tells me that before all this transpired, you made a small request. Was that merely a ploy to escape, or did you really need to ... ah..." He trails off again. His Victorian sensibilities apparently won't allow him to discuss bodily functions.

"No, I really needed to—" I jerk my head in the direction of the lavatory nearest his office, feeling my cheeks start to burn. Apparently my sensibilities won't allow me to discuss them, either.

"Very well," he says, waving his hand toward the door.

I blink through narrowed eyes. "You aren't going with me?"

Dumbledore shakes his head. "Oh, no. I've just been myself, and I trust that you'll return in a few minutes."

I nod slowly and rise. He retrieves some piece of parchment he'd had on his desk. I walk to the door and turn the knob. He merely reaches for his quill. I open the door. He retrieves a blank piece of parchment. I walk into the hall. He starts scribbling away. I pull the door closed. He doesn't move, other than to write.

What the hell is going on here?

For the past week, he's been my constant companion unless I was strapped to a bed, and now he's going to give me back my wand—just like that—and let me walk out the door, knowing I just tried to escape? What is he playing at?

Once I've relieved myself and washed my hands, I undo my robes and slip them over my head to take off my nightshirt, still puzzling over all this in my mind. Then I put my robes back on, fold my nightshirt, and seriously consider merely walking down the stairs and out the front doors. In fact, I have already taken three steps in that direction when my curiosity gets the better of me. Two minutes later, I am back in the headmaster's office, just as he is sealing the letter he wrote in my absence.

"There you are, m— Severus." Well, at least he's trying. "I was starting to get worried."

"I had my nightshirt on under my robes," I offer by way of explanation, before I am even aware of having made a conscious decision to do so. "I thought I ought to take it off."

Dumbledore only nods, smiling. "That explains the delay, then. Please." He waves a hand toward the chair across from his desk.

I sit down, staring at him.

"Well, you're probably wondering why I have had you brought here," he says, still smiling.

"More counselling?" I answer, with a barely repressed sigh.

"Again—not exactly." Now he rises from his desk and goes to a cabinet on the far side of the room, where he retrieves his Pensieve. "I have realised that all the counselling in the world will do no good if you do not understand why it is that you need it in the first place." After setting the stone basin on the desk, he perches himself next to it and folds his hands in his lap. "So I thought today we would look at some of your memories."

"My memories?" I ask, frowning. "What have my memories got to do with it?"

"I think the purpose will make itself abundantly clear once we have started."

Fine, I think, rolling my eyes. "Which memory?"

"I'm glad you asked me that, because there is one memory in particular that I would very much like to observe: an evening in your sixth year. As I recall, something happened in the showers, and Professor Crouch brought you to the hospital wing. I would like to see that memory, please." His tone is light and amiable, as always, and he smiles that infuriating smile again, but I've also noticed that his hands have clenched in his lap.

I want nothing more than to tell him to piss off and die, but I manage to repress the urge. "All right," I answer with another sigh and nod toward the Pensieve. "How do I get it in there?"

Smiling again, Dumbledore pulls his wand. "You take your wand and press the tip to your temple." He demonstrates. "Then you concentrate on the memory in question and slowly draw the wand away ... like so." A bit of what looks like his silver hair—but also insubstantial, more like vapour—clings to the end of his wand. "After that, you place the memory in the basin, and give it a stir."

He lowers his wand until it just touches the silvery surface and prods the contents, causing them to swirl, and I lean forward in my chair to have a better look. Inside is an image of a boy in black, transfiguring a tapestry into jewels and precious metals. I am fairly certain the boy is me, but only because I remember having done that, right here in this very office.

"At this point, we can both step inside to examine your memory more closely." Dumbledore then places his wand in the basin, withdraws the bit of hairy vapour, and sticks it back inside his temple.

I nod and take out my wand. What harm could it do, after all? At the very least, Dumbledore will see that I'm not insane, and what's more, that I know how he's been trying to hoodwink me. Once I've placed the tip of my wand against my temple, I concentrate hard on that night and slowly pull my wand away. I am clearly successful, because now I have a bit of hairy vapour on the end of my wand. When I place it in the Pensieve and prod the silver liquid, Dumbledore rises.

"Shall we?"

I stand as he lowers his face until his crooked nose just contacts the silvery surface. His body shrinks and revolves as he is sucked into the memory, but a second later, he is standing on the stone tiles in the bathroom of my old dormitory, beckoning to me to follow. I lower my nose to the basin, and my stomach immediately lurches, as if I'd been going downstairs and missed a step. After a second of falling through oppressive cold blackness, I land with a jolt on the stone, with Professor Dumbledore standing right beside me. I feel myself blushing again as the teenaged version of myself begins to undress, but Dumbledore coughs and politely looks away until after I have pulled the curtain closed on my shower stall.

A moment later, I poke my wet head out again, but I don't understand why. The lighting is still exactly the same. Then I scream and jump backward into the stall, but ... but she's not there!

"What happened to her?" I ask sharply, turning my head quickly in Dumbledore's direction.

"What happened to whom?" he says calmly.

"The creature! Where is she?"

By now, I am pounding the floor with clenched fists, and ... Avery, Wilkes, Lestrange, and Rosier?

"But it wasn't them!" I protest. "It was Potter and his gang."

"Snape, what's the matter?" Avery asks, approaching me where I'm crouched in the shower stall. "What is it? Snape?"

I turn and press my back against the shower wall, then take a swing at him, and Lestrange steps up to help him. "Go and get a teacher!" Lestrange barks over his shoulder, whilst they both try to take hold of my arms. Wilkes sprints from the room, mere seconds before I sink my teeth into Lestrange's hand. Then I slam my heel into Rosier's groin, and he drops to the floor, groaning in pain and clutching both hands to his crotch.

"We're trying to help you!" Avery screeches, and I claw at his face and neck, peeling away long strips of skin.

What the hell is going on here? I'm attacking my friends, like some sort of madman? I can hardly bear to watch. A second later, the lavatory door bursts open, and Professor Crouch storms in, his wand held up in front of him, with Wilkes trailing in his wake. Avery and Lestrange immediately jump back away from me, apparently glad of the reinforcements. I wrap my arms protectively 'round my knees, which I've drawn up to my chest, and rock back and forth on the shower floor as the spray beats down on my shoulders.

"Be careful, Professor," Lestrange says, wrapping a towel around his bleeding hand. "He's gone mad."

Crouch looks around at their various injuries. "He did this to all of you?"

Rosier has managed to sit up, and he nods. "We heard screaming and came running, but he attacked us. We were only trying to help."

"Did he say anything?" Crouch asks.

Avery shakes his head. "No. I asked him what was wrong, and he stopped pounding the floor long enough to stare at us, but then he just lashed out, like he didn't even know who we were."

"All right, boys. Fetch me a blanket." Crouch squares his shoulders and takes a step toward me. "I'll have to Stun him."

Everything in the Pensieve then goes black.

"What are you playing at, Dumbledore?" I ask, turning to face him.

"What do you mean, Severus?" he replies, still calmly. Damn the man!

"You've altered my memory!" I shout. "You used Legilimency or something to remove it and replaced it with this!" I gesture wildly about the darkened space surrounding us.

"No, I have not," he says quietly, shaking his head.

Before he has time to say anything more, the memory resumes, this time in the hospital wing. I expect the images to be distorted, as I remember, but everything is sharp and crystal clear. Madam Pomfrey bustles about at the end of my bed, tucking up my covers, and my teenaged self opens his mouth to speak, but I can hardly believe what comes out.

"Edge tip-nof-kap es oon?"

The nurse flinches. She obviously hadn't realised I was awake, but now she turns to stare at me. Not that I can blame her...

"Edge tip-noof es Kap-puff, Peld, Mof-fy, bow Ka-foo-jish?" I say slowly, and after a short pause, "As edge oon nick oh-mao?"

Madam Pomfrey merely shakes her head.

"Oon tao tip-on joe-up oo tucks-fast up bub-dle nuf. Jen ex-poe-jofs ed tip-noo-feet apt oon ook ah."

She walks to the head of the bed, pulls the blankets up under my chin, and squeezes my shoulder. "You've had a difficult night, Mr Snape. Don't try to talk. Save your strength. You need rest."

And I glare at her, looking murderous, whilst she backs away. At the time, I was so angry with her for not understanding me, but now I see why. "Is that rubbish really what I said?"

"It would seem so," Dumbledore replies. "At least that is what Madam Pomfrey reported to me at the staff meeting a week later, and Professor Crouch's account tallied with these events, as well."

I simply stare at him for the longest time, before he takes my elbow to lift us out of the Pensieve.

"You're trying to make me think I'm mad," I say at last, once we're back in his office.

Dumbledore has once again seated himself behind his desk, and he shakes his head. "No, Severus. That is not my intention."

"But that's what you think, isn't it?"

"No. I do not think you are mad," he says slowly. "I think you are a schizophrenic, and what you experienced at the time was very real to you. But as you can see, that is not what truly happened."

I shake my head. "You've changed it, that's all. You've taken my memory and replaced it with this to make me think I was imagining things."

"As I have told you already, Severus ... I have not. That is the magic of a Pensieve. It allows one to view a memory as it actually was, rather than how one perceived it to be at the time. Often one is too close to the memory to see things clearly, but an objective view can elucidate matters a great deal."

I can only shake my head again. I don't believe this. I don't want to believe this.

"You say that you saw James and his friends—"

"Are you saying that I imagined it when they attacked me all those times?"

Dumbledore sighs, and I can tell that he is weighing his words very carefully before he speaks again. "No, Severus, I am not. But I am interested in this particular time, not the others. So ... you saw James and his friends, correct?"

"Yes."

"Tell me: did they ever molest you in your dormitory before that night, or afterward?"

"No, they didn't," I answer, frowning. "And I didn't know how they got in there that time. Somebody must have left the door to the common room open."

"This creature that attacked you..." He now reclines in his chair, resting his elbows on the arms and pressing his fingertips together. "Is she what made you scream?"

"Yes. She clawed my arm."

He nods. "So, you were bleeding?"

"Ah..." I frown. "No, I wasn't ... now you mention it."

"Bruises?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

"No."

"Any marks at all?"

"No!" I grind out through clenched teeth.

"That is because there was no creature, Severus. Your mind invented her."

"No!" I shout, digging my fingernails into my palms. "I saw her! Madam Pomfrey just healed my arm before I woke up."

"Poppy assures me that the only injuries you had were self-inflicted—"

"No!"

"—broken bones, but no broken skin."

"No!"

"Severus, you know what I am telling you is the truth, even if it may be difficult for you to accept."

"Why that memory?" I shoot at him suddenly. "You were very specific about which memory you wanted to see. Why that one?"

"Because I suspected it contained some of the most severe hallucinations that you have experienced to date. And, sadly, I was correct."

My eyes narrow. "It wasn't because that was the memory you'd altered, and you couldn't risk having me look at another one? Is this why you've kept me here? Just so you could show me this perverted memory?"

Dumbledore again shakes his head. "I have neither tampered with your memories, nor had you brought here, Severus. When I said that earlier, I meant having you brought to my office this afternoon. You came to Hogwarts, however, of your own volition."

I can only scowl. Why on earth would I have willingly walked into this prison? "Then I can leave, if I want?"

He sighs. "Yes, Severus, you may. As you have recently reminded me—so very poignantly—I have no right to keep you prisoner, although I do wish you would stay."

"So you can poison me with those potions, you mean?"

"No, Severus. So that Madam Pomfrey and I may treat your schizophrenia. That is all I want to do. That is all I have ever wanted to do."

I look away, my jaw clenching again. I don't want to believe him. And yet, I cannot deny that the Muggles and my father have left me alone since I woke up in the hospital wing...


	10. Deliverance

**Note:** This chapter may be particularly disturbing to some readers. Please proceed with caution.

* * *

[T]he play's the thing / Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king. — _Hamlet_, Act II, Scene 2

**Deliverance**

"Where will you go?" I ask Severus, following a long silence.

"Don't tell me the great Albus Dumbledore isn't clever enough to keep tabs on me!" he snaps, turning back to glare at me.

My only answer is to take off my spectacles and rub my eyes. I suppose it was foolish of me to expect him to welcome my help, especially after having known the freedom of being out on his own. I have no wish to restrict him unduly, of course, but I cannot allow him to go about hurting people when he is not properly medicated.

"Home," he says then, simply, and I can but frown.

"I am afraid that you no longer have a home to go to, Severus. It was sold, along with your possessions, to cover your debts."

"You're lying."

"I only wish I were," I say, exhaling with a sigh. "I think you will find that Lucius Malfoy now holds the deed to the house in Spinner's End. We can write to him, if you like, but I have no doubts that he will confirm what I have just told you."

His glare resumes, and it is almost as if I can hear what he's thinking: that I have an answer for everything. Of course, that is only because I am telling him the absolute, unvarnished truth.

"Very well. I see that you are determined not to believe me. So, why don't you choose a different memory? One you are reasonably certain I do not know about. Perhaps after you left school?"

"You've probably done those, as well," he grumbles.

"I am a busy man, Severus," I say with a soft chuckle and a shake of my head. "I fear that I simply do not have the time to go trawling inside your head in search of memories that I might wish to alter."

He continues to glare, and clenches his jaw as if he is biting back another sharp retort that is poised on the end of his tongue, but he pulls his wand and once again presses the tip to his temple to withdraw another memory.

The scene I observe inside the Pensieve is the interior of large, lavish sitting room. When Severus' hosts come into view, I recognise them at once: Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. When I have followed him inside, I try to watch both the past and present versions of Severus carefully. The present one peers at Narcissa's face intently, and although the past version is avoiding her gaze, I am certain he sees something we do not. He shakes his head, still looking away, when Narcissa asks if he wants to hold the baby, so she lays her son gently in his bassinet. After she and Lucius have departed by Floo, Severus' head turns this way and that, apparently trying to locate the source of some non-existent sound.

"What are you hearing?" I ask.

"Scratching in the walls," he mumbles, scowling.

"Insects, perchance?"

"Beetles," he mutters, distracted, before suddenly turning to face me with one eyebrow raised. "How did you know?"

"That is a common hallucination amongst schizophrenics."

We follow as he levitates Draco's bassinet down the cellar stairs and bars the door, but we are bathed in darkness until he lights the torches. When he has, the Severus at my side begins to breathe rapidly. Draco appears to be sleeping peacefully until the past version of Severus shoves his fingers down the poor child's throat, as if to clear away some obstruction. The baby turns fairly red, trying in vain to scream.

We both turn at the sound of the cellar door being blasted off its hinges, although the past version of Severus does not seem to have noticed. He is too busy waving his arms in the air to fend off the "beetles." As she rushes down the stairs, Narcissa drops her gloves and a pair of opera glasses that she didn't have before they set off. She must have forgotten them, and when they returned, they could hear the baby's screaming. Whilst Narcissa lifts Draco into her arms, Lucius pulls Severus away from the bassinet.

"What were you doing to my son?" he demands, gripping Severus' arm so hard that his knuckles whiten.

Severus does not reply. He simply stares at Lucius with a bemused expression, as if he hasn't heard him at all.

"I think that will do," I say quietly, taking hold of Severus' elbow once more. When we've landed in my office, he sinks into the chair in front of my desk, as if his legs no longer wish to support his weight.

"I never meant to hurt him," he feebly whispers, looking very pale.

"I know that, Severus," I answer gently, squeezing his shoulder.

"I thought I was protecting him."

"I know."

"Dear God, what have I done?" He leans forward, with his face in his hands and his elbows on his knees.

"No irreparable harm, I am sure."

"I'm glad one of us is," he mutters behind his fingers, attempting to shrug off my hand.

I take that as my cue to leave him be. I could not be certain how much he would allow me to comfort him, but now it appears I have my answer: not at all.

"Lucius and Narcissa will forgive you," I say gently, sitting. "And the boy is so young, I doubt that he will even remember what happened."

"That's not the point!" Severus snaps, finally looking up.

"Then what is the point?"

"I love Draco! I would never hurt him! But you've just shown me a memory in which I do just that. What am I supposed to think?"

"I know this is difficult for you," I say gently, "but when you are not taking your potions, you are capable of hurting Draco, even when you think you are doing nothing more than protecting him."

He looks away.

"You would never choke a baby under normal circumstances, Severus, and if you have been taking the potions, you would not have seen those beetles. Therefore, you would have had no cause to hurt him."

When he faces me again, his eyes shine with unshed tears, and I can only imagine what he has been through—a struggle of almost Sisyphean proportions. The potions make him feel abnormal, so he stops taking them. That makes him feel normal, but that is when the real abnormalities begin. Then he cannot communicate what goes on inside his head in a way that outsiders can understand. The poor boy. At times, I almost wish I could reach inside him, remove his disorder, and place it inside my own brain. The majority of the wizarding world already thinks me mad anyway. How much more could schizophrenia damage my reputation?

Alas, taking his condition into myself is not an option, so I can only support him in any and every other possible way.

"That was not you, Severus," I say softly. "This man I see before me now who feels so much remorse at having hurt an innocent baby ... that is the Severus Snape I know. But you must continue to take your potions each and every day, even if you feel that you are well and no longer have need of them. Otherwise, this—" I wave toward the Pensieve. "—is the result."

I do not know what I expected him to say or do in response, but it certainly was not to raise his wand to his temple again. I quickly rise from my chair, suddenly afraid the boy means to do himself harm. My fears are soon laid to rest, however, not only because of his small smirk at my hasty ascent, but also because he merely draws his wand away from his temple with another memory attached. Once he has placed that recollection in the Pensieve, I nod and walk around the desk, curious as to what memory he wishes me to view this time.

For a moment after he prods the silvery surface, the contents of the Pensieve swirl, but the image soon clears to reveal the mouldy stone walls in the cellar of what appears to be a large house. Severus bends his face to the basin, and I follow him inside forthwith.

"We have a present for you, Snape!"

Walden Macnair emerges from the shadows, dragging a large brown bundle tied with rope along the floor, and even in the dim light, I can see that something is moving beneath the fabric. Lucius Malfoy helps him set the bundle upright and dissolves the cords with his wand. They both unwrap the brown material to reveal a naked, terrified, battered and bruised woman. She tries her best to cover herself with her long red hair, but Lucius takes a handful and marches her over to a large stone altar in the centre of the room. He forces her down on the top, and Macnair conjures more cords to bind her, spread-eagled, upon the stone.

"Please, don't hurt me!" the lady gasps in a frantic whisper.

Severus doesn't seem to notice his "present." Not like the other Death Eaters, who watch this spectacle with hungry expressions. All except one other, that is: Regulus Black stands apart, his back pressed firmly against the wall, as if he very much wishes that he could be absorbed into the stone.

There are times that even I forget what I am watching is in the past, such as when Evan Rosier approaches the poor woman, pulling up his robes. She screams for help and pleads pitifully to be spared as he forces himself upon her, and my hand is already halfway inside my robes to retrieve my wand before I remember that I can do nothing but observe this sad spectacle. Except, perhaps, to take some satisfaction in the fact that Rosier has since been killed whilst attempting to evade Aurors.

All the Death Eaters take a turn at her (again, save for Severus and Regulus), and I try my best to keep the shock and disgust from showing on my face. Severus does not need to witness either, as he appears to have more than enough of his own to contend with at the moment.

"You want a go, Black?" Lucius asks, lowering his robes once he's finished with her.

Regulus shakes his head, eyes wide, and presses himself further into the wall.

"Don't worry—there won't be any half-blood spawn to upset your mother," he continues, smirking. "We'll see to that. Or Severus will ... won't you, Severus?"

The Severus in the memory seems to jolt awake at being addressed, and he approaches the woman then as if on cue, a horrible smirk plastered on his face. He carries something long and black that appears to be quite heavy, as he is half-dragging it across the floor. The ominous scrape of metal on stone has set the poor woman to screaming again, and soon I see why. This pole looks as if it has come from a fence—a heavy wrought iron rod with a spike resembling an arrowhead on one end. The tip of the spike is noticeably shiny, more so than the remainder of the metal. I imagine it has been meticulous sharpened to that cruel point.

"Oh, God, no! Please, no—please, don't hurt me! Somebody help me! Please, don't kill me! Oh, God! Spare me, sir! Please!"

When he reaches the woman, Severus shoves the rod inside her, in his own grisly parody of the violations she has just endured, and she shrieks in a blood-curdling scream that echoes off the walls. As she tries to fight the intrusion in any way she can, the woman's back arches, whilst blood gushes from between her legs. Finally she goes limp, apart from a few errant spasms, and more blood trickles from her nose and mouth.

"Good God, Snape!" Wilkes breathes, with an expression that is almost admiration.

Again, Severus does not seem to notice. He simply turns away with a sigh, heading back the way he came, although he comes to an abrupt halt in front of Regulus Black, who is still dumbstruck and pressed against the wall. Turning quickly, he pulls Regulus away from the wall by the neck of his robes and slams him hard against the stone. Severus then twists his hand in the cloth, lifting until the boy must stand on tiptoe to keep from choking.

"You've always had it in from Cliodna!" Severus hisses. "If I ever hear you say anything about my cat again, you will be very sorry indeed."

This statement is followed by gales of laughter from the other Death Eaters, but once more, Severus does not seem to notice. He simply resumes walking. Neither does the Severus standing next to me seem to notice; he does, however, sway dangerously, his skin ghostly white. As I wrap my arms around his waist to steady him, I conclude that we have seen quite enough of this memory, as well, and I take us back to my office shortly. But the man I lead out of the Pensieve is a mere shadow of the one I followed inside. I also help him into the chair, and this time he does not protest.

After I have made certain that he will not fall onto the floor, I conjure some tea and a flask of brandy. Madam Pomfrey has said that he should refrain from strong drink, of course, but under the circumstances, I think we may dispense with that particular rule. I pour a generous splash into one cup and follow that with tea and milk, but Severus decides to forego the tea altogether, reaching for the flask instead. Well, it will not go to waste. A nip of brandy may do me some good at the moment, too.

His hand trembles violently when he raises the flask to his pasty, quivering lips. The last time I saw Severus so pale and shaken, he was sixteen and had just come from facing down a charging werewolf. Even the arm that holds the flask is folded tightly over his chest, as if to protect himself. Clearly he did not know what he would find in that memory, and in a way, I am honoured that he trusts me to the extent that he allowed me to witness this revelation, painful though it has undoubtedly been—for the both of us.

I must confess I knew all along that the Death Eaters were capable of such depravity, but having seen it first hand is unsettling, to put it mildly. Schizophrenics are rarely violent, even when they are neglecting their medications, but once again Severus appears to be the exception to the rule. Yet I know he would never do such a thing when in his right mind, however disagreeable he might, on occasion, be.

In a moment, Severus straightens in his seat and sets the flask down on my desk, taking a deep breath. He is still deathly pale, even if the tremors have subsided.

"I'm ready to go, Headmaster," he says, in barely more than a whisper.

"Go where?" I ask quietly, eyebrows raised.

"Don't play games with me, old man!" he snarls. "I'm hardly in the mood." After another deep inhalation, he adds, "Where do you think?"

I take a bracing sip of tea and walk behind my desk to sit. "Azkaban?" I ask, setting down my cup and saucer, and he gives a curt nod. "I see no reason to turn you over to the Ministry, Severus."

He simply stares in narrow-eyed disbelief for a long moment. "You condone murder now, do you?"

"No, I do not," I reply, quietly still, but firmly. "What I saw in that memory was not murder, Severus. I daresay you did not know what you were doing. In fact, I would imagine you knew no more what that memory contained than I did, until we both saw it just now."

"But I killed that woman!"

"And you can do nothing more for her, Severus, but you may be able to save dozens just like her—perhaps even hundreds—from meeting a similar fate."

His face draws into an intense scowl, and again folding his arms over his chest, he hunches even further into himself. And I can hardly believe that I am entertaining the sort of notions I am. After everything he has been through, my first thought is instinctively how I can use him to my best advantage in this war. I suppose I should not be surprised. After all, the Sorting Hat considered putting me in Slytherin for a reason. No matter what either of us may want, Severus will have to return to Lord Voldemort's service sooner or later. I do hope, however, that it is later, rather than sooner.

I realise with a pang that we are now consummately dependent on one another. He needs my silence regarding this crime he has committed, and I need information concerning Tom Riddle's plans. But can a schizophrenic be trusted to spy? Well, desperate times do call for desperate measures. And when the crucial moment arrives, I have no doubts that I shall be able to contrive a plausible tale to account for his change of heart and subsequent decision to return to our side.

"You want me to spy for you, then?"

Over the years, I have been continually amazed at the boy's sharp, logical mind, as well as his intuitive grasp of magic—a woefully rare combination amongst wizards, I must admit. Severus clearly possesses one of the greatest minds of his generation. A boy after my own heart—or brain, as it were—so I am not surprised in the least that he has followed my train of thought to its inevitable destination.

"In short, yes."

After a few minutes of silence, he reaches out with his wand to remove his memories from the basin. I have made my point, I believe, so we have no more need to lose ourselves in his thoughts. When he has finished, I decide to give him a moment to mull things over, so I rise to put the Pensieve away in its cabinet. This cabinet once housed my spirits, but I have since removed them all in order to set the boy a good example. And now it makes a perfect home for my Pensieve. Which is rather large. Did I really used to drink so much?

I am brought back from my musings by the clearing of a throat. "You do realise what you are asking me to do?"

"I do," I reply, once again taking my seat. "Quite likely even more so than you do. After all, Lord Voldemort—" He flinches at the name. "—already believes you to be a murderer, so he will expect you not to hesitate, should he order you to perform such acts in the future."

If possible, more blood drains from his pale skin, but even so, he nods. "And if I refuse, you'll turn me over to the Ministry, is that it?"

I shake my head. Far be it from me to cast the first stone. "No, Severus, I will not. I meant what I said before: I do not honestly believe that you deserve a life term in Azkaban for something you scarcely remember having done. In fact, now I think of it, I do not believe we may dismiss the possibility that Mr Malfoy had you under the Imperius Curse. I daresay you are rather accustomed to hearing voices, many of which give you orders."

The boy's eyebrows rise momentarily but then contract a second later. He is no doubt well aware of how the Imperius Curse operates. Granted, resisting Imperio should be aided in part by the differing structure of his brain, as his predisposition to Occlumency would dictate. The two are remarkably similar—so much so that many have attempted to have Legilimency classified as Unforgivable, as well. Severus has been hearing these voices for so long that he likely does not give a second thought to attempting to resist. Or rather, he had not given resisting a second thought before today.

"At any rate, if you do not return to the Death Eaters soon, whatever the reason, your life will be forfeit. You have already failed to answer your master's summons once since you came here—"

"When?" he asks sharply, going paler still.

"The first night you spent in the hospital wing. You weren't lucid enough to remember. And I would imagine that Voldemort is already making plans to have you killed upon your return. If, however, you were to bring with you a peace offering, he might dissuaded from such a course."

"What sort of peace offering?"

I give a small sigh. "I do not know yet, but you are safe, so long as you remain at Hogwarts. I can offer you my personal protection until such a time as we have a suitable bargaining chip."

His eyes narrow again, and he seems to ponder his options for a long moment. Eventually, he comes to the same conclusion I have. "I don't have much of a choice."

"I am afraid not," I say with another sigh, "although if you would prefer to simply disappear, I can hide you more completely than you could possibly imagine. I cannot force you to spy, of course, but I thought you might want the chance to make amends."

He snorts quietly, but I can tell, nevertheless, that my words are getting through to him.

"You are already well placed within the organisation, so that would save me the trouble of having to insinuate someone into Lord Voldemort's inner circle. I could not have wished for a better operative, even if you weren't already a superb Occlumens—which you are, without even having to try. That is an advantage that cannot be discounted. He will find absolutely nothing in your thoughts that could possibly betray you. It is my belief that someone with your particular talents can do much more good outside the walls of Azkaban than within them ... although your volunteering to be taken to prison was undoubtedly a fine gesture."

"My particular talents?" he asks with an incredulously raised eyebrow.

"You know more about the Dark Arts than anyone I have ever met, Severus ... with the possible exception of Lord Voldemort himself."

"You flatter me," he replies in a bored tone, rolling his eyes.

"And yet," I continue, raising my voice slightly to carry over the interruption, "I have never seen you use them except to defend yourself. You have a strong sense of personal ethics that prevents you from doing so."

He scowls then, but I doubt that is because of the compliment I have just paid him. "Won't he find it suspicious? That he doesn't find anything in my thoughts, I mean. You said my condition prevents anybody from penetrating my mind."

"That is true. I myself have had access to none of your thoughts that were formed after your symptoms began to manifest."

He nods slowly, evidently deciding for the moment not to ask why I have invaded his brain. "So won't he find that suspicious?"

"I think not," I answer with another shake of my head. "You will find, Severus, that a Legilimens—however skilled—is often his own worst enemy. He penetrates a person's mind with a particular question pervading his own thoughts, and the mind of one unskilled at Occlumency will then naturally provide the answer to that question. For instance, if Voldemort had occasion to question a follower's loyalty, when he penetrated that follower's mind, the mind would either provide evidence of disloyalty or else show nothing at all. One cannot prove loyalty, after all, only disprove it. The mind of a skilled Occlumens would also fail to provide evidence of disloyalty, by suppressing it, and there is no easy way to tell the difference. Voldemort is just arrogant enough to consider a lack of evidence proof that such evidence does not, in fact, exist."

After a long moment of frowning, apparently deep in thought, he meets my gaze and gives a resigned nod. "I'll do it."

My chest suddenly swells with pride. I had known in my heart that he would accept, but to hear him actually say the words is something of a relief. I would have allowed him to leave here with his secret forever intact, and he has chosen instead to risk his life ... to tread the more difficult, but clearly right, path. In doing so, he has more than lived up to my expectations of him, and I daresay his great grandfather would be exceedingly proud. A quick glance at Everard's portrait shows that I am correct: He beams down at the boy from his frame.

"What if the Dark Lo—You-Know-Who asks—"

I shake my head once more, and he falls silent. "Call him 'the Dark Lord,' Severus. You are supposed to be his servant, after all. Referring to him by any other name will likely get you killed."

He swallows, as if to gather his courage to again pose his question. "What if the Dark Lord asks where I have been all this time?"

"Tell him the truth," I say with a slight shrug. "You were taken ill, but you returned as soon as you could. You will have to invent enough tales in the days to come. Best to keep things as simple as possible, when you are able."

He only nods.

"Why did you want to look at that particular memory?" I ask him, gently, after a moment.

Severus takes another deep breath before answering, tracing his lower lip with one long, thoughtful finger. "I'd been seeing her all week—that woman ... flashes of her face. But I thought it was a hallucination. I wanted to make sure. I never thought..."

"I know, m'boy." He doesn't appear to have noticed the slip this time, but I can understand his wish to no longer be called a boy, especially after today. I shall make more of an effort to avoid using that term in reference to him in the future.

Neither of us speaks for a bit, but for the first time today, the silence is not troubling. I know that Severus believes me now, and he will not attempt to flee. Furthermore, he has now seen what he is capable of when he is not taking his potions; he will not neglect them again. Madam Pomfrey will no doubt have to refresh his memory with regards to the proper regimen, but I imagine his continued diligence will now be assured. I rise after another moment and place my hand on his shoulder. Although he flinches just a little, this time he does not pull away.

"Now, if you would be so good as to accompany me, Severus, I will show you to your quarters."


	11. Duty

Hamlet: I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players...  
Polonius: My lord, I have news to tell you.  
Hamlet: My lord, I have news to tell you. / When Roscius was an actor in Rome,—  
Polonius: The actors are come hither, my lord. — _Hamlet_, Act II, Scene 2

**Duty**

We proceed to my new rooms in silence, but I gasp softly once Dumbledore has opened the door. Boxes of my things litter the stone tiles, and even the portrait that hung over our fireplace in Liverpool is here on the wall above the bed, though the frame is empty for the moment.

"I thought you said all my things had been sold?" I ask, after looking around the room and gaping for a long moment.

Dumbledore merely smiles again. "They were sold, Severus. It just so happens that I purchased as many of them as I could afford."

I simply stare at him again. For the longest time, I wanted so much to hate him, to believe the worst of him, but this ... I have never been rich, or even comfortable, truth be told. I even retained my mother's habit of not bleaching my whites—which rots the threads—long after I began to work at the Department of Mysteries. I have to admit that the thought of losing everything I owned came as rather a large blow, but apparently I haven't lost it all. Granted, those boxes cannot contain all my belongings, but this is vastly preferable to starting over from nothing.

If Dumbledore had an ulterior motive, I imagine he would have mentioned that he'd done this earlier, when he was attempting to convince me to spy. Instead, he waited until after I'd agreed to work for him against the Dark Lord to spring this on me, rather than using his display of charity to show how sympathetic he was to my plight. Or perhaps convincing me of the hopelessness of my situation was his aim? I'm still not certain what he really wants, and I'll need some time alone to think before I can be sure of his intentions.

"Thank you, Headmaster. I ... I'm touched," I finally manage to say in a barely audible whisper. That much is true. If nothing else, I'll have some creature comforts until I've decided for good and all what I am going to do.

"Think nothing of it," he answers with a cordial clap on my shoulder. "I am sure you will be able to repay me in time."

I am not certain whether he means the actual gold or the spying I have just agreed to do, but I suppose the distinction doesn't actually matter at the moment. A second later, Dumbledore clears his throat, his hands again clasped together nervously in front of him.

"Well ... I am afraid that I must leave you now."

"Where are you going?" I ask, and surprisingly, my voice sounds rather tense, even to my own ears. I want nothing more than to be alone, but I also find myself imagining that if I let the headmaster out of my sight, he'll return with a legion of hit wizards. From the way he smiled earlier—satisfied, and even a touch proud—I do believe he sincerely wants me to spy, however, and I cannot very well do that from inside Azkaban. I suppose I knew that he would have to leave eventually, but I thought ... well, I don't know what I thought, exactly. That he might give me more instructions, perhaps.

"Hogsmeade. I have an appointment." He pats my shoulder once more and smiles. "I shall return soon enough, Severus, and there are many protections on the castle and grounds. You will be quite safe in my absence."

I nod, and he turns to go, but he stops after a few steps and turns back to face me, his bushy white eyebrows contracted in a frown.

"I do not imagine you would wish to go out in this weather, but I must ask that you remain inside the castle whilst I am away, unless there is an emergency. Should something happen, come to the Hog's Head inn at once and find me. If anyone intercepts you, however, you are not—I repeat, not—looking for me. Make any other excuse you can think of, but no one must know your real intention. It is vital that we be seen to have no dealings whatsoever."

My stomach begins to churn even more uncomfortably at his words. If I asked about all this secrecy, I have no doubts as to what he would say: we cannot risk the Dark Lord's learning of our conspiracy against him. And yet, I wonder if the Dark Lord is truly the one he wishes to deceive. He has assured me that I am safe for the moment, but if I fail to deliver information he deems valuable enough or otherwise displease him, how can I be certain that he will not simply have me carted off to Azkaban, with my own memories as the only evidence needed to condemn me? Again, I have no choice. I must play the part that he has given me to the best of my ability—at least until I know where I stand.

Despite my considerable concerns, I do my best to make sure none of them show in my expression as I nod. "I understand, sir."

"I must also ask that you not tell anyone what we have discussed today. I think it would be best if this were to stay between us. With one notable exception," he adds, with another small smile. "If you feel the need to apologise to Madam Pomfrey, I think we can make allowances for that."

"Yes, sir," I say, nodding, and I am a bit surprised to find myself smiling as well.

After I've closed and locked the door behind him, I decide to unpack, still mulling things over. I daresay Dumbledore is a talented enough wizard to have altered my memories, but I cannot imagine he would have created the scene I witnessed in Macnair's cellar. He is too kind a man, too gentle in nature, to have imagined something like that. And, of course, I do remember parts of it—such as attacking Black, and now the woman's pleading—so I am sure what I saw was the truth. I still have trouble believing that I would ever do such a thing, but now I've seen it with my own eyes ... I still don't know what, precisely, I should think.

And if I do go back into the Dark Lord's service, I shall have to act that way again. I shall have to kill again. Without hesitation. To keep him from becoming suspicious. I don't know if I can do that. I may be an exceptional Occlumens without effort, but can I be a convincing Death Eater?

I turn to place a framed photograph of my mother holding my sister on the mantel, when I stop cold at the sight of the potion bottles already sitting there. My medications. The ones Madam Pomfrey has prescribed. The ones that keep me from degenerating into that monster I saw earlier. Those are another thing I had hoped not to see again, but it appears that I shall never be free of them.

I realise now that I am my own prison. Or rather, my brain is. I will remain locked inside these walls of grey matter for the remainder of my term on Earth. The only real difference between this and a stint in Azkaban is that I would not have to take the potions if I were incarcerated. And if Dumbledore changes his mind one day and decides to send me to Azkaban, at least I won't have to take them any longer.

It must be getting close to suppertime, and though I haven't the slightest interest in food, it seems that I may have missed my noon dose of the Draught of Peace. Since I don't feel up to facing Madam Pomfrey just yet to inquire if she administered it whilst I was unconscious, I take a teaspoon anyway. I don't think I could take too much, and at the moment, I have anxiety and agitation to spare. An extra dose won't go amiss.

No sooner do I reach up to place the potion back on the mantel than a searing pain rips through my forearm, causing me to drop the flask, which shatters on the stone. I push up my sleeve and hope against hope that the Mark on my arm hasn't turned black. It has, of course, but at least it is no longer bulging and talking to me the way it used to.

I know Professor Dumbledore said I shouldn't leave the castle, but I cannot imagine a more pressing emergency than this. If I am to go back empty-handed, the Dark Lord will kill me in an instant, and if I do not return, he will send somebody to dispatch me, just as quickly.

Again, I have no choice, and so I pull on my cloak, close the door to my room, and quickly walk down the stairs, setting out from the castle in this storm for the Hog's Head inn.

~*~*~#~*~*~

The weather is unseasonably cold for July, I imagine because the dementors have abandoned Azkaban, except for a few that remain to keep up the pretence of Ministry control. Alas, the Impervious Charm I have cast on my cloak can do nothing about the biting wind, which seems to have only increased in speed since my departure. Nor can it keep the chilled raindrops from blowing up underneath my robes and hood. And so, by the time I arrive at the inn, I am quite soaked.

"Evenin', Albus," the enviably warm and dry landlord bids me as I remove the garment and hang it on a peg by the fire.

"Aberforth," I answer with a nod and a smile, despite my soggy state. "Is Miss Trelawney in?"

He nods, wiping dry a glass that scarcely looks as if it has been washed, but my brother has never been one for fastidiousness. "Up the south stairs ... 7B."

"Thank you." After drying myself with a charm and warming my hands briefly before the hearth, I make my way upstairs and find the lady's room with no trouble. Sybill Trelawney answers quickly and smiles as she stands aside to allow my entrance.

"Sherry, Headmaster?" she asks, waving a bangled hand toward a chipped decanter on her small table.

"Thank you, no," I answer, seating myself close to the fire. She looks rather disappointed at my refusal, but her breath indicates that she has already drunk more than enough for the both of us. "Why don't we get down to business, as it were," I suggest, crossing my legs and folding my hands in my lap.

Nodding, Miss Trelawney reaches for a small box on the table and, unless I am very much mistaken, removes a deck of tarot cards. Apparently she is intent on telling my fortune in lieu of presenting me with her _curriculum vitae_. She shuffles the deck and slides the cards across the table for me to cut, so I go along with the charade, tapping the top card somewhat impatiently with my index finger. After she turns over the first card, she positively beams.

"The Hierophant!" she announces in a theatrical, misty voice. "And I must say I have never seen a more fitting representative of a major arcana!"

A strong image of Severus' blasé "You flatter me" comes to mind just then, and Miss Trelawney evidently takes my smile as approval. Well, I suppose there is no harm in allowing her to think that for the time being.

"In the house of Aries, this card signifies that your focus is on an organisation which will further your aims, and perhaps new opportunities for that organisation."

I only nod, and she turns over the next card.

"_Death_," she breathes in a dramatic whisper, and I can only imagine this is one of her favourite cards. "Contrary to popular opinion, the Death card does not always refer to physical death—although it can mean that, as well—but rather a stark change or transformation. In the house of Taurus, it would indicate that you are worried about your finances because of a sudden loss."

Trying not to sigh, I nod again.

"But not to worry—the Star! In the house of Gemini, this says you may expect money in the post or from friends or family. The four of swords in Cancer tells me that you feel irritated, or perhaps have had an unpleasant confrontation at home." She turns over the next card. "Justice in Leo ... this deals with romance, and it means that your love life is exactly how you want it at the moment."

Now I have trouble repressing a chuckle. Romance has not been a priority in my life for nearly seventy-five years.

"The nine of wands in Virgo ... you will soon be making money and promoting yourself or your business successfully." After she has said this, she frowns for a brief moment, apparently just now coming to the realisation that as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, I am no entrepreneur. Instead of amending her statement, however, she quickly continues to the next card. "The king of cups in the house of Libra. You may feel abused in a relationship and are perhaps looking for a diplomatic way to end things...?"

Ah, yes—the fishing for information employed by many a charlatan to prey on the vulnerable. Those who come for such a reading are frequently discontent, especially in matters of love, and are easily hoodwinked by such methods. I try to keep my face impassive, and she continues.

"The ace of swords, in Scorpio, means that you will have an opportunity to expand your business or improve your finances, so you needn't worry about the Death card in Taurus." After clearing her throat, she turns over the next card. "The Moon in  
Sagittarius ... you have made or will soon make an unpleasant journey fraught with many problems or delays that will make you wish you had not bothered."

Such as this excursion, I think, and now I do sigh, but softly.

"The Chariot—I must interject that I have rarely seen so many trump cards in a single reading. The matter at hand is undoubtedly important to you. Yes, the Chariot in Capricorn would indicate that you do not know how to proceed at the moment—afraid to force a solution for not knowing how—but you must soldier on, despite obstacles, and the Mage in Aquarius signifies that you will receive much needed counsel from a friend as to how to achieve your goals."

I nod once more, quickly losing my patience. She seems to have sensed that, as she is now turning the cards over much more rapidly, or perhaps this is simply her idea of a dramatic conclusion.

"Pisces represents a blind spot that may hinder you, and the Lovers say you will be troubled by things that aren't going according to plan ... or perhaps that you will be separated from your sweetheart, but unable to put her out of your mind. And finally, the Hanged Man. Problems will be resolved, one at a time, and a tempestuous period will soon draw to a close." She sits in silence after that, with a hopeful expression.

"Thank you, Miss Trelawney," I say, rising. "That was most enlightening ... but I do not think you will be suitable for the post."

"Wait! I haven't read your palm!" she answers, her voice rising, almost hysterically, as she stands and follows me toward the door. "Or the runes, or I Ching. I could even read entrails—I saw some goats out back—"

"No!" I say, a bit more loudly than I intended, whilst raising my hand to quiet her. "Thank you ... but no. I think I have heard quite enough." I have already placed my hand on the doorknob when a harsh, hoarse voice from behind me stops me dead in my tracks.

"THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES..."

"Begging your pardon?" I ask, turning back to face her. Miss Trelawney has gone rigid, her eyes wide and staring, with one of her hands clenched tightly on the bedpost, fingernails digging into the wood.

"...BORN TO THOSE WHO HAVE THRICE DEFIED HIM, BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES..."

Although I have never set much store by prophecies myself, at once I recognise two very important implications of this prognostication. The first is that we now have the bargaining chip Severus so desperately needed in order to return to the Death Eaters unscathed. The second, alas, is that if Lord Voldemort ever discovers Sybill Trelawney was the one who made this particular prophecy, her life could be in very grave danger.

A sudden commotion outside the door startles me, and not in the least because of the voices involved.

"Here! What are you doin'?" Aberforth shouts.

"Get off me!" Severus retorts.

"...AND THE DARK LORD WILL MARK HIM AS HIS EQUAL, BUT HE WILL HAVE POWER THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT..."

Miss Trelawney continues, seemingly unaffected by the scuffle occurring right outside the door, which grows progressively louder. This, I perceive, is no parlour trick. The trance she is in appears to be very real.

"...AND EITHER MUST DIE AT THE HAND OF THE OTHER FOR NEITHER CAN LIVE WHILE THE OTHER SURVIVES ... THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD WILL BE BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES..."

Once she has finished speaking, her eyes flutter, as if she is about to faint, and without stopping to think, I fling open the door.

"Aberforth! Help me!"

In an instant, my brother is at my side and helps me to lower her limp body onto the bed. Severus seems to have understood the implications of this prophecy himself, because he is still standing there, hovering just outside the threshold. I can tell that he also wishes to help, but he is thankfully obeying the order I gave him earlier: no one must know of our dealings.

"Get me some of that sherry," I tell Aberforth, nodding toward the rickety table by the fire.

He immediately moves to the table and shortly returns with a glass, whilst I lift Miss Trelawney's head to pour a bit into her gaping mouth. Soon she swallows, coughs, and struggles to sit upright. When she has finally come to her senses, Aberforth appears to remember what he was doing before I enlisted his help, and he charges toward the door, taking hold of Severus by the neck of his robes.

"Get out of it!" he shouts. "Listenin' at the keyhole! I oughtta box your ears!"

"I told you, I came up the wrong stairs!"

As he attempts to fight off Aberforth's grasp, Severus looks to me, his eyes pleading. I am afraid that I cannot rescue him without giving away our involvement, but in the split second that our eyes meet, I do risk sending him a mental directive: _Meet me in the stables. No one will see us there._ The structure of his brain precludes my reading his thoughts, of course, but perhaps this message got through. Before Aberforth finally manages to haul him away, his expression seems to clear ever so slightly, so I can only hope it has.

"Dear me, did I faint?" Miss Trelawney asks me, rubbing her temples.

"I'm afraid so," I say gently, affecting an expression of deepest concern. "Perhaps you should wait until tomorrow to bring your things to Hogwarts. The current weather is unpleasant, at best, and if you are already feeling unwell..."

She regards me with a bemused expression. "But Headmaster ... I thought ... you said ... that I wasn't suitable for the post."

"On the contrary, my dear lady," I answer with a jovial grin. "I find the talents that you have demonstrated this evening to be most satisfactory. With your leave, I shall call tomorrow afternoon to escort you to the castle."

Miss Trelawney only nods, still looking perplexed. "Very well." Once the realisation that she has in fact secured the post dawns, she smiles. "Yes, indeed, Headmaster. I am most pleased to accept the position."

"Then I shall bid you a good evening, Miss Trelawney, or should I say Professor? Until tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow," she answers, still smiling as I close the door.

~*~*~#~*~*~

_Meet me in the stables. No one will see us there._

The words came unbidden into my head, but the voice undoubtedly belonged to Professor Dumbledore. That is the only reason I am here now—drenched to the skin, pacing through mud and straw in a stable, my nostrils filled with the stench of goats, as their infernal bleats assault my ears.

"So soon..."

That voice is the headmaster's, as well, which is the only reason I don't shout as I wheel about to face him. Before he spoke, I hadn't realised I was rubbing the throbbing Mark on my arm. Dropping my hands to my sides, I step closer and nod. "I'm sorry—I hadn't counted on the barman—"

Dumbledore shakes his head, raising a hand to quell my explanations. "No need to apologise. You followed my instructions to the best of your ability, under the circumstances."

"Do you think he bought my excuse?"

Again he shakes his head, but much to my surprise, this time he smiles. "No. But you are new to this. I imagine your stories will improve with time. Besides, I know my brother: Having the opportunity to throw you out of the building will no doubt be enough to satisfy him. Now ... how much did you hear?"

I glance quickly around the visible perimeter before leaning closer. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches," I whisper, "born to those who have thrice defied him, as the seventh month dies."

"That will do to be going on with," Dumbledore replies with another smile. "So, deliver those tidings to your master, and return to Hogwarts as soon as you are able. I imagine the hour will be quite late, but do take care that you are not observed."

"Certainly, Headmaster."

"And be careful, my boy," he says, gripping my upper arm before I have the chance to step away. "You could very well be walking into an ambush."

With a soft sigh, I answer, "I know."

Do I ever.

At last, I step away from him, take a deep breath, and pull my wand as I prepare to Disapparate. After I've touched the tip of my wand to the Dark Mark, to home in on the Dark Lord's location when he summoned us, I depart.

"Well, well, well ... what have we here?"

No sooner have I lowered the hood of my cloak to take in my surroundings than I find a wand tip pressed firmly into my throat. I recognize this voice instantly, as well, and though it is a battle, I swallow and manage to fight down the thrill of panic as I force a smile. "And a very good evening to you, too, Bellatrix."

"Shut your filthy half-blood mouth!" she hisses, now stepping back, but with her wand still pointed at my face. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you where you stand."

Though the irony of her telling me in rapid succession both to shut up and then to tell her a reason why she should let me live strikes me as quite amusing, I fight to keep the smirk off my face. That isn't as difficult as it might be normally, considering that my skin has begun to sting, thanks to the shower of red sparks erupting from the tip of her wand. Bellatrix has never been anywhere near as intimidating as she imagines herself to be, however, much to her chagrin. But this does serve as a poignant reminder of why I ought to apologise to Madam Pomfrey without unnecessary delay.

"And where have you been all this time?" she demands.

"Hogsmeade," I answer without hesitation. "I was taken ill, but I am feeling much better now, and I do thank you for asking." Dumbledore was right. Telling the truth makes things much easier.

Her face contorts in anger, but not more than a second later, she looks over my shoulder at somebody who approaches from behind me. This, too, is eerily familiar, and a chill washes over me, as though I have been doused with ice-water, but I resist the considerable urge to turn and draw my wand. If my charade is to work, I cannot appear to be nervous or harbouring any sort of guilt.

"That's enough, Bella," Lucius says, clapping his hand to my back and smiling. A second later, however, he draws a monogrammed handkerchief from the pocket of his robes to wipe his hand dry, turning back to face his sister-in-law. "Instead of snarling at company, why don't you make yourself useful and take his cloak?"

Now I do smirk, and as I strip off the drenched garment, Bellatrix glares, one hand balled into a fist on her hip, but she holds out the other.

"Hello, Severus," Lucius says, once more turning to me and smiling. "It's been a while. How are you?"

"Fine," I answer with a nod and smile myself.

His smile then falters ever so slightly. "But I thought you just said you'd been ill?"

"You see? He's lying!" Bellatrix snaps, turning and pointing at me with her wand after she has hung up my cloak. "Even you don't believe him, Lucius."

"Now, now, Bella ... be polite," he admonishes, his grin firmly back in place. "Severus is our guest, after all."

Lucius stretches out in his armchair, surveying me over the tips of his fingers, which he has pressed to his lips. Bellatrix continues to glare, fists on her hips, and suddenly I wonder where the Dark Lord is. He did summon us, after all, and I thought I was Apparating to his side, but I see no sign of him in Lucius' sitting room.

"Where is the Dark Lord?" I ask him calmly, making no move to sit. "I have important news."

Lucius gives a small shake of his head. "He is occupied, for the moment. He requested that Bellatrix and I greet you ... if you deigned to join us tonight, that is."

Interrogate me, more like, I think, but I quickly repress that thought. My prolonged absence has evidently been noted, but I feel confident that knowledge of this prophecy will soon allay any doubts my fellow Death Eaters may have as to my loyalty.

"Have a seat," Lucius says then, waving an elegant hand toward the settee behind me. "Would you care for a drink?"

With a quick sidelong glance at Bellatrix, I sit. "Ah ... no, thank you."

Lucius' forehead contracts into a frown. I daresay he has never known me to abstain before—and especially not from the expensive spirits he tends to keep on hand. "Not even a splash of port to take off the chill?"

I shake my head. "That's quite all right, Lucius, though I do appreciate the offer."

"Very well." He casts a glance toward the coat rack, where Bellatrix still stands, glowering at me. "Bella, don't hover."

Now she shoots him a venomous glare, but nonetheless, Bellatrix walks to the other armchair and sits on the edge, with her wand clutched in her lap. Her back is straight and her posture stiff, poised to spring up again at a second's notice, but at least now I can observe her directly, instead of having to rely on my peripheral vision.

"The Dark Lord finds himself concerned about your absence, Severus, and reports we've had of your consorting with Muggles."

"And with the recent deaths and disappearances—" Bellatrix cuts in, and Lucius silences her with a glare of his own, but it is too late: the newt's out of the cauldron now.

"Deaths?" I ask, frowning.

Lucius turns back to face me, the merest shadow of a glare remaining upon his features. "Rosier and Wilkes are dead. They were captured by Aurors and regrettably decided they would rather die than go quietly. Apparently they never considered that we have the means to spring them from Azkaban with the dementors on our side."

Raising one hand from the chair's arm, I gesture—casually, I hope—toward myself. "But what does that have to do with me?"

After another quick glance at Bellatrix, apparently to warn her to keep quiet, Lucius clears his throat. "Nothing, really, but both you and Regulus Black happened to vanish around the same time, and the Dark Lord thinks the events may be connected. He wishes to ferret out any traitors in our ranks. I'm sure you can understand that, can't you?"

I give a quiet snort and turn to Bellatrix. "Well, if it's traitors you seek, it would seem that you need look no further than your own cousin."

Bellatrix jumps to her feet, this time pointing her wand at my chest, and I smirk once more. She really is too excitable for her own good. "You sold Rosier and Wilkes out to the Aurors, didn't you?" she screeches. "Didn't you?"

"Stop it, Bella!" Lucius barks.

"No!"

"I said, stop!"

Now he is on his feet, as well, and reaches out to take hold of her wrist, but she wrenches her arm from his grasp. I suppose blaming me is a less unpleasant option than admitting a member of her family isn't quite up to scratch.

"It's all right, Lucius," I say, still smirking, and then I turn my unflinching gaze on Bellatrix. "If you would prefer that the Dark Lord not hear the prophecy that concerns his downfall, then by all means ... kill me now."

She continues to glare at me, her breath coming in rapid bursts through her nose, but then—still looking as though she wishes me naught but ill—Bellatrix lowers her wand. Her fanatical devotion to the Dark Lord would never allow her to take even the smallest risk that he might be killed. In fact, manipulating her this way has been absurdly easy.

I know the headmaster was concerned about my coming here tonight, but I have been a Death Eater long enough to know how to deal with each and every one of my "comrades." If things go even half so well with the Dark Lord, I imagine I can safely put Professor Dumbledore's fears to rest.


	12. Deception

I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is / southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw. — _Hamlet_, Act II, Scene 2

**Deception**

Waves almost rock me to sleep as I float on a bed of warm ocean in this isolated cove, without a care in the world. Or almost no cares. Thankfully I remembered to coat my nose with a Sun-Blocking Potion to keep the skin from blistering. That is unfortunately a necessity with hair and beard as white as mine, as I am uncomfortably reminded when I open my eyes little more than a crack. The light reflecting off my own _chevelure_ assails my poor pupils with a sudden stab of pain, and I close my eyes again almost immediately.

This too shall pass, however, as the sun has now almost sunk beneath the top of the palms that crest the horizon. Only a few more minutes now, and I can drink my surroundings visually, as well as floating peacefully and inhaling the hearty salt air. What little waves traverse the reef are gentle, not jarring, and I can ease in and out of consciousness, completely unconcerned with anything outside this room. Shaking my head, I sit up in my chair, wondering if it was my snoring that woke me. Pity, too, I think as I wipe away a line of drool trickling down my right cheek. I was having an exceptionally pleasant dream.

It takes me a moment to differentiate the low rumbling of thunder in the distance from the soft knocks on my office door. The storm has evidently moved on, but I shan't be too hasty to call that a good omen until I see that Severus is safely back at Hogwarts. I rise slowly, deciding that giving my legs a stretch would do me no harm, and make my way to the door. When I open, standing outside is a still pale but otherwise unharmed Severus, and I exhale in relief, smiling.

"Talk of the devil..."

He scowls at my words, obviously hurt, which was not my intention. Not at all. I suppose I shall have to measure my words more carefully in the future. At the very least, the remark was ill-timed.

"Forgive me, Severus," I soothe, stepping back to let him in. "It is simply an expression. I meant no offense."

Rather than bother with saying "None taken," because I clearly did offend him, he simply nods, walks inside, and takes a seat across from my desk.

"You look as though you could use some refreshment," I add, conjuring some tea and cake, and pouring us both a cup before I resume my seat.

Severus nods again, a far-away, haunted look in his eyes, as he lifts the cup and saucer and takes a sip. Rather than question him too strenuously for the moment, I cut the cake and hand a slice over across the desk. I suppose I could state the obvious: "You look troubled, my boy," or something along those lines, but I decide instead to let him eat. I am certain, after all, that he will inform me how things transpired before long. Of course, that does not keep me from wishing, once again, that I could read his mind.

Thankfully earlier, in the Hog's Head, he was receptive to my instruction and was not actively blocking my thoughts. While I have no substantive doubts that Lord Voldemort will also be unable to successfully penetrate his mind, I am also glad that Severus did not hear the remainder of the prophecy. At the moment, his situation is precarious enough. Best to not leave anything to chance.

At a clink of china, I look up. Severus had finished his cake and brushes the crumbs unceremoniously from his lap before taking one last sip of tea and setting down his cup.

"How did it go?" I ask finally, able to contain my curiosity no longer.

"Well enough," he answers with a seemingly uncaring shrug. "I'm still alive, after all."

I cannot help smiling at that. "So I see. I am pleased to have you back here, safe and sound. I was dreadfully worried."

He raises an eyebrow. "And you show your concern by snoring, do you?"

I have already opened my mouth to answer back, but just then I notice the fleeting smirk that dances across his lips, and instead, I give a soft chuckle. "So, you've found me out. When you are my age, Severus, we shall see how easy you find it to stay awake all night. Speaking of which..." Once again, I lean back to retrieve something from my desk drawer, and both his eyebrows rise this time as I present him with the tiny hour glass on a delicate gold chain. "Somehow, returning this to the Ministry all those years ago must have slipped my mind."

Despite having used the thing only once prior to tonight, Severus recognises the Time-Turner immediately. Nevertheless, I cannot resist teasing him a bit when he asks, "What's this for?"

"It allows you to travel backward a set increment in time," I reply, feigning a frown, but then I grin.

"Yes, I know that," he answers with a snort. "I meant, why do I need it this time?"

"To make certain you get enough rest," I answer shortly. "Schizophrenia and sleep deprivation do not mix."

He nods, slipping the Time-Turner into the pocket of his robes. Instead of rising to go, however, he sighs. Now I feel uncomfortable, as if I am reading his mind. He appears to be wrestling with the idea of confiding some aspect of tonight's events to me. I have no wish to force his confidence, but I can hope he knows that I will be willing to help him cope with his new role as spy in any way I can.

"I worry," he says after a moment and another sip of tea, "what the Dark Lord may do, in light of this new information."

"The Prophecy?" I ask, and he nods. Evidently he fears that we have just set Lord Voldemort on some unsuspecting couple. "Well, Severus ... I do not think we need to concern ourselves with that."

"Why not?" he asks with another scowl, and again, I cannot help smiling.

"Do you know how many prophecies the Ministry has on record?"

This time, he shakes his head.

"There are literally hundreds of prophecies in the Hall of Prophecy, Severus. Only a handful of them can in any way be considered to have been fulfilled. And if that weren't quite enough, the number of couples who have thrice defied Lord Voldemort comprises an even smaller list. The odds are, I believe, very much in our favour."

That seems to have allayed his concerns, more or less. He nods again, shortly thereafter, although he still looks a mite troubled. I suppose I could continue in this vein and assure him that I do not believe in prophecies in general; nor do I see Miss Trelawney as exceptionally talented—or indeed, as having any talent whatsoever. On the other hand, that last option may not be the wisest course of action, considering that I only just today agreed to hire her. Regardless, even if Lord Voldemort takes this prophecy to heart and manages to find a singular couple who qualifies according to its terms, we should have more than ample time to formulate our next course of action.

And speaking of impending courses of action, I realise now that I shall have to teach Severus to send a message via Patronus without delay. Although tonight it was unavoidable, we cannot risk his sneaking back to the castle in the wee hours for much longer. I do realise the tremendous burden I have placed upon his young shoulders, but I have no doubts that he is equal to the task. I wouldn't have sent him off to perform it if I thought otherwise. Nevertheless, the more safeguards I can give him, the better.

~*~*~#~*~*~

"Here," Lucius says kindly, pushing open the door to my former residence in Spinner's End. Once he's extracted the key from the lock, he hands it to me. "Though I cannot imagine why you have any wish to dwell in this Muggle area..." His grey eyes rake the dreary interior of the dwelling, and I cannot help being somewhat amused at his obvious distaste for his surroundings. Ironically, this gives me a wistful reminder of that time when I was drunk and vomited on him, but I try to keep that from showing on my face.

"It makes a good hideout," I answer with a shrug. "Not too many wizards ferry 'cross the Mersey."

I didn't expect him to understand the allusion to the Muggle song, and I am not the least bit disappointed. Lucius' silver eyebrows contract in confusion now, in addition to the earlier revulsion. I must confess that I enjoy these little revenges of having one over on him. They allow me to revel in being superior to him in at least the knowledge of things he will never understand, even if I am often poignantly reminded that I am his inferior in every other way. It is a pity Lucius isn't familiar with the Muggle precept that the first rule of war is to know one's enemy. This lack of familiarity with Muggles may well prove his undoing.

After I've closed and locked the door behind us, I turn to take in his expression, nose still crinkled in disgust. That, however, I think is a small price to pay, considering that he Imperioed me into taking a woman's life. Again, however, I repress my feelings and give him a small smile, gesturing around the sitting room. "So ... how much do I owe you for this?"

"It's not about the money, Severus," Lucius answers, drawing his wand. He gives the thing a quick wave, and immediately a sofa, an armchair, and a small, unsteady looking table appear, making the sitting room look even more cramped than when empty. "I thought you might need some furnishings. Narcissa wanted to send these to the Triple S, but I convinced her that we ought to support friends before strangers."

At that, I cannot repress a small snort. Apart from attempting to hire one as the occasional nanny, Narcissa has never struck me as harbouring an especially soft spot for Squibs. I can only take her reluctance to give the furnishings to me—opting for a charitable organisation such as the Society for the Support of Squibs instead—as an indication that she has not yet forgiven me for hurting Draco. Not that I had expected her to, as yet. That will take time. Lucius, on the other hand, seems to have forgiven me, but I cannot help being a touch suspicious as to why.

Whilst I am pondering that very question, he waves his wand again to conjure a crystal decanter of Ogden's and two glasses. He pours a splash into one automatically and offers the glass to me. "Shall we drink to old times?"

I shake my head, holding up a hand, and he frowns. The pleasures of drinking ourselves into a stupor together are apparently difficult for him to give up. "I'm afraid I can't, Lucius. My recent illness ... I, ah, managed to drink enough that I've damaged my liver beyond repair. I can take potions that replenish the enzymes on a daily basis, but if I were to ingest spirits—even a little ... it would kill me."

He frowns worse then, eyes darkening. "I'm ... I don't know what to say." He breaks off and swallows, then takes a sip from the glass and shakes his head, licking his lips. "I'm sorry, Severus."

I give an uncaring shrug, just happy that he bought the story. Thankfully Madam Pomfrey was able to supply me with a plausible excuse that not only explains my sallow complexion but excuses my daily regimen of potions, in addition to exempting me from the temptations of social drinking.

"It's all right. At least I can brew well enough to keep myself alive."

"There is that." He nods with a wan smile and then sinks into the armchair. "I did want to talk to you about your drinking, now you mention it."

One of my eyebrows springs up as I settle myself on the sofa. "What about it?"

"Well..." He takes another sip, frowning again, as if searching for the right words. "Sometimes when you were drinking heavily, you didn't ... act like yourself. Actually, you quite worried me on more than one occasion."

"Oh?" I ask, feigning innocence, as if I have no idea what he means at all. "How so?"

"It's hard to explain," he answers, exhaling with a sigh. "Sometimes you'd say things that didn't make any sense—"

I snort, cutting him off. "Everybody does that when they're pissed."

"Not like this," he maintains, shaking his head. "You'd mutter about beetles and Muggles trying to control you, and all sorts of mad things. One time, you were even doing that when we were waiting on the Dark Lord to arrive. I was ... I was afraid he'd kill you if he heard you talking like that. That he'd think you were a security risk." Lucius swallows again, now positively scowling. "So, I put you under the Imperius Curse to calm you down. I'm sorry—that was a horrible thing to do you, but I was terribly afraid of what might happen to you if the Dark Lord had witnessed your ravings."

A shiver runs down my spine, and my limbs erupt in gooseflesh, when I realise how close to the Killing Curse I probably came. That would also explain why Lucius wanted to be the one to greet me when I returned not so long ago. He wanted first crack, to feel me out and see if I was in my right mind. As grateful as I am for knowing that he protected me, I still find it difficult to reconcile this Lucius with the one that had me impale that woman in my memory. But to him, she was less than human—a mere beast put on this earth for his enjoyment.

She likely would have died anyway, even if I'd had my wits about me, and I probably would have, too, for attempting to save her. Besides, as the headmaster said, I can dedicate my life to assuring she did not die in vain. Of course, Dumbledore worried that I would be placing myself in danger repeatedly. That really is the least of my worries, at the moment. It is this charade that concerns me: nodding along and pretending I agree with the vilest ideas I've ever heard. I can do it, of course, but at what cost?

I feel every time I say that pure blood is better than not, that blood traitors are no better, that Muggles ought to be crushed under our boots, a part of my soul withers and dies—whether I believe such things or not. And I do not believe them. My father was no prize as far as human beings go, but I am not enough of a simpleton to consider him representative of all Muggles. In a way, though, if I don't keep up the act, if I am not convincing, I will be putting myself in danger. That knowledge is as good a motivation as any. Thankfully, I have my natural Occlumency to fall back on, when it all gets to be too much.

"Thank you, Lucius," I manage to whisper at last. "I know I can never repay you."

He claps me on the shoulder and smiles warmly. "I'm just glad to have you back. And I can always console myself with the fact that I'll have you sober to clean me up when I'm three sheets to the wind."

I nod and cannot help smiling myself. "Indeed."

Lucius drains his glass and stands, raising his eyebrows. "We have two spare bedroom suites, as well, if you're interested?"

"Certainly," I answer, standing myself, and I lead him through a door in the far wall, hidden behind a bookcase, to the stairs.

~*~*~#~*~*~

Although Minerva wished to confront me regarding this matter in the staffroom, I thought it best to adjourn to my office to discuss our new Divination teacher, far away from overly curious ears. To say she is angry would, I fear, be a dreadful understatement. Be that as it may, we likely will be unable to resolve this matter to her satisfaction. I cannot terminate Sibyll Trelawney's employment without endangering her life; nor can I explain the situation fully to Minerva without placing her in unnecessary peril. I am, as they say, damned if I do and damned if I don't.

Once I've closed and locked the door, I turn to face her, steeling myself with a sigh. "Now, precisely what is the matter, Minerva?"

"What is the matter?" she repeats, faintly, as if she cannot possibly believe I have just asked her that question. "She told Caradoc Dearborn that he was going to die, that's what is the matter! On the first day of term! That's a fine thing to hear when starting your seventh year!"

When my lips twitch as I attempt to hide a smile, I hear something akin to a growl issuing from her throat, and indeed, just then she rather resembles a lioness that has scented a limping antelope. Nodding to hide my expression in my beard, I step around her to proceed toward my desk. Of the two evils between which I am now forced to choose, I would much prefer the lesser one of a subpar grounding in Divination for Hogwarts pupils. I have never considered the subject to be of much use, after all, so her lack of talent does not strike me as much of a loss. I would rather have Sibyll here and safe, even if Minerva will never forgive me for employing her.

"I don't suppose you considered, Minerva, that Miss Trelawney's style tends toward the dramatic?"

I stop in mid-step, attempting to make out the black blur I can only just see through my office window, trudging up the drive to the castle through the freshly fallen layer of snow. Freezing rain this past summer, and now snow drifts a foot high in September. One would think, if Tom were bent on controlling the wizarding world, that he might do something to improve the weather. Surely such an effort would win more followers to his side than espousing blood prejudice.

After another second, I notice the shoulder-length black hair framing the figure's face, and I myself cannot help sporting a scowl. I thought the boy understood that we were to be seen having no dealings. Once Severus left the castle to resume dwelling in Liverpool—thanks in no small part to Lucius Malfoy's considerable generosity, no doubt—I thought the matter quite settled. Seeing him here at Hogwarts, however, unleashes a ball of dread in the pit of my stomach. It is also with some trepidation that I realise I haven't the foggiest idea of what Minerva has just said.

"Really, Albus!" she snaps, and I turn away from the window at last to regard her. "If you cannot see what a monumental mistake it was to hire such a person, I don't know what to say!"

I give a small shrug, tilting my head to the side with an apologetic smile. "I am sorry, Minerva, but I fear we must agree to disagree. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend to."

After throwing her hands into the air in exasperation, Minerva presses her lips into a thin white line and leaves. I am certain it took all the resolve she had not to slam the door behind her. Alas, I was correct: she will never forgive me for this—or at least not any time soon. I cannot say that I entirely blame her. Thinking back to when I myself was deputy head and tried to convince Armando Dippet to keep Hagrid on as the Hogwarts gamekeeper, I imagine I would have been in a similar state if he had stubbornly refused. Therefore I shall certainly excuse her anger, even if at the moment, it is to my advantage. She has a brisk walk even when she is calm, so this little spat will undoubtedly carry her far away from my office long before Severus reaches the gargoyle that keeps watch.

I take a seat, awaiting his knock, as my trepidation steadily grows. "Come in!" I am relieved to call at last.

His head snakes around the door, and his eyes sweep the perimeter, before he finally decides it is safe enough to step inside. Those suspicious instincts will serve him well as a spy, but that is, in part, why I find it so perplexing that he chose to visit Hogwarts in broad daylight.

"Headmaster—I'm sorry to disturb you—"

"It's all right, Severus," I answer with a dismissive wave and then gesture toward the chair across from my desk. "Come in, come in."

Once he has closed the door, I wave my wand to engage the lock and then clear my throat, clasping my hands in my lap. "Severus, I thought you understood that our association must be kept secret..."

I trail off, however, neglecting the remainder of the tirade when I notice that he is smirking. "I might be worried, Professor, if I weren't here on the Dark Lord's orders."

I return his smile, shaking my head. I should have known. "That is a thestral of a different colour. Well, then ... what does Lord Voldemort want with me?"

"Not with you, exactly ... the Dark Arts job..."

"The Defence Against the Dark Arts job, you mean?"

"Yes," he answers, with an impatient sigh at being corrected. "The Dark Lord wishes me to apply for the position."

This, I must admit, I find troubling, for an altogether different reason. Rumours abound that the Defence Against the Dark Arts position is cursed. The reason for this, of course, is because the rumours are true: the position is cursed. I have spent several years attempting to work out what manner of spell was used, or failing that, a viable counter-curse. So far, I have not had much luck. One thing I can say for certain, however, is that the position has been cursed ever since I turned Tom Riddle down for the job.

The problem with Voldemort's appointing Severus to apply does not lie with his skill level; he is undoubtedly proficient. Nor does the problem lie with his, in my opinion, rather unhealthy fascination with the Dark Arts themselves. What troubles me is that I have not been able to keep a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher for more than a year since I refused to hire Tom. This would mean, of course, that whatever ulterior motive Lord Voldemort has—and I have no doubts there is one—whatever task he wishes Severus to perform whilst at Hogwarts, he must be able to accomplish in under a year. Either that, or he wishes for the boy to die trying.

The larger part of me fears it may well be the latter possibility, and the whole of my being dreads it. I imagine this is Lord Voldemort's idea of punishing Severus for his previous absence—in spite of the bargaining chip that allowed Severus to return and live. Riddle has always been petty and vindictive, despite showing a charming facade to the world. Nevertheless, I do have a trick or two up my sleeve still, and I may yet confound his plans without arousing his suspicions unduly.

"I have a counter-offer, Severus," I say, finally, fixing him with a cheerful expression. "Professor Slughorn has expressed his intention to retire at the end of the year. I think if I were to discuss the possibility with him, he might be willing to take you on as an apprentice of sorts ... to show you the ropes, as it were, since you do not appear to have any teaching experience. Am I correct?"

For the first time since the boy entered, a flicker of fear passes over his features. "You want me to teach Potions?"

"I do ... and I seem to recall that you earned Outstanding NEWTs in both Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts—"

He swallows. "But—the Dark Lord—"

"Unfortunately, Lord Voldemort is a bit behind the times, Severus. I filled the Defence Against the Dark Arts position only this morning." And a good thing, too, considering that term has already started. I had to take the fourth years' lessons myself today.

He goes a little pale but then nods. "He won't be happy. What should I tell him?"

"Tell him that I absolutely refused to give you the Defence job. He should be able to understand that the best laid plans do not always come to fruition."

Severus nods, but I can tell that he is not yet convinced.

"Potions would be better, I think, for the following reasons. For one thing, it will allow you easy access to the ingredients you need to brew your medications. For another, it will cast doubt on how much I am willing to trust you. If Lord Voldemort has even the tiniest suspicions that we are in cahoots, you will be in danger all over again. I imagine he sent you here in order to spy on me?"

He nods.

"Well, then—spy you will," I continue, waving a hand in his direction, before raising my index finger to emphasise the next point. "Only we have the advantage in this situation, Severus: Lord Voldemort will learn only that which we wish him to learn. And quite apart from that, your teaching here will help minimise the future horrors you must endure. Voldemort is not yet willing to come out into the open. Therefore, he will not expect you to murder people right under my nose." I think, but do not add, that if Severus can stay at Hogwarts for longer than one short year, I can protect him.

Finally, that convinces him. He will no doubt have to explain things to his master in similar terms to those I have just outlined, but Riddle is no fool. He will see the value of having a spy at Hogwarts. Of course, now I have a niggling suspicion that learning my movements is only the tiniest part of Tom's aims.

* * *

**A/N:** I know McGonagall said in _Prisoner of Azkaban_ that none of the students whose deaths Trelawney predicted had actually died. Caradoc Dearborn is missing and presumed dead, however, and I can see McGonagall not considering him dead, _per se_, since they never found a body. In other words, I think she would willfully ignore any evidence that contradicts her views, since she is virulently opposed to Divination (despite the fact that Trelawney really is right more often than not).


	13. Dire Situations

Then is doomsday near: but your news is not true. / Let me question more in particular: what have you, / my good friends, deserved at the hands of fortune, / that she sends you to prison hither? — _Hamlet_, Act II, Scene 2

**Dire Situations**

"My goodness, Severus! You look terrible!"

After a few seconds of discomposure that follow answering my insistent knock, Dumbledore stands aside to allow me to enter his chambers. Apparently my appearance is pitiful enough to have made the consummate gentleman forget his manners, even if only for a moment. That is quite a testament to how horrid I must look. Though however wretched my outward aspect, I must confess that I feel ten times worse, as I gather my robes around me, stepping inside Dumbledore's rooms.

"I'm sorry to disturb you so late, Headmaster, but I fear this can't wait until morning."

"Evidently not," he answers, nodding, and waves me toward a squashy armchair near the dying embers in his hearth. "Would you care for some refreshments?"

I shake my head, perching on the edge of the chair. I don't dare to relax into its depths, for fear that I may be unable to extract myself when I am ready to take my leave. Dumbledore apparently entertains no such worries, and he practically reclines in the chair opposite me, folding his hands in his lap. After watching me silently for a few seconds, he spreads his hands, palms up, and cocks his head to one side.

"What is it?"

I lick my parched lips, exhaling through my nose. "He's going after the Potters."

Which "he" is of course understood, and immediately every trace of drowsiness escapes from the wizened face. In fact, Dumbledore's eyes shine with a determination I've not seen in a long time. "You are sure?" he asks quietly, and I give a curt nod.

"I am absolutely positive. He said so himself tonight, in so many words."

Dumbledore ponders this information for another second or two before nodding, as well. "And did he say when?"

"No," I admit, shaking my head once more. Though I am certain the Dark Lord's plans would be far more elaborate than simply presenting himself on the Potters' doorstep and cursing the life out of them, he has unfortunately made no mention of the details. Until I know more, it is useless to speculate, and Dumbledore appears to know that, as well.

"Very well." He pulls his wand and a second later, a silver blur erupts from the tip, speeding out of the room and up his chimney. "I already have an Order meeting scheduled for tomorrow, but under the circumstances, I will sleep better if James and Lily stay at Hogwarts in the meantime."

Obviously he notices that my expression does not clear upon hearing that the Potters will be under his protection for the night, and the white eyebrows draw together in a frown. "Was there something else, Severus?"

"Unfortunately, yes," I reply with another nod. This is the difficult bit. How do you tell somebody you've come to think of as a father that your master requires you to kill him?

"What is it?" he asks again, and surprisingly, his voice is even more gentle this time. This might be easier if it weren't.

My throat is suddenly very dry, I find, though my eyes are anything but. "He ... he—wants me to—kill you." Despite the fact that my eyes are rapidly filling with tears, to the point that Dumbledore appears to be little more than a white blur, I must admit my astonishment as his expression transforms almost at once into a smile. How can he possibly smile at a time like this? "You think this is funny?" I hiss, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Oh, no, my dear boy," he answers, shaking his head with a dismissive wave. "This is—if you will pardon the expression—deathly serious, and I might even see my way clear to being upset, had I not already anticipated something along those very lines. I have known for years, however, that Lord Voldemort would prefer to have me out of the way. All modesty aside ... since I am considered to be the only wizard he fears, in addition to being an undoubted coup in terms of strategy, my death would also come as quite the blow to the morale of the Order especially, but also to the wider wizarding world." After pausing to watch me again for a moment, he asks, "Are you sure you would not care for some tea, at least?"

All I can do is stare at him. Tea? He's worried that I'm thirsty, when I've just told him that I am expected to kill him. The rumours must be true: he's lost his grip, finally. "No, I don't want any tea!" I snap, standing and turning away, as I fold my arms over my chest. Sometimes the old codger makes me so angry that I do want to throttle him. It's probably a good thing I don't have tea at the moment, because I likely would have smashed the cup against the wall by now.

"Now, now, Severus ... what was that little display of temper supposed to accomplish?"

"Don't patronise me, old man!"

When I wheel about to face him, Dumbledore wears an expression of near disgust, and I can tell it is all he can do not to cluck his tongue at me, to show his disapproval. But I don't give a damn. Maybe he's expected me to do him in all long. I'm not one of his precious Gryffindors, after all. Slytherins are born bad and bred to be evil, so of course we are nothing more than killers at heart. He did say that the Dark Lord would expect me to kill again, without hesitation, and he was not the least bit surprised to learn of my directive. I daresay that this has been his plan all along.

"Severus ... why has this upset you so?" he asks quietly, with the forced patience of one speaking to a small child.

"Because I don't want to kill you, you unfeeling bastard!" I shout at the top of my voice, digging my fingernails into my palms in an effort not to bloody the old man's nose. The silence rings from my outburst for a second or two, during which I clench and unclench my fists.

At last, Dumbledore shakes his head, his expression one of utter disbelief. In fact, I do believe this is the only time I have ever been fortunate enough to see the Headmaster gape. "Goodness gracious, Severus!" he answers, through something bordering on a laugh. "Of course you don't want to kill me, and I wouldn't hold you in nearly such high esteem if I thought for a second that you did."

I try, for several uncomfortable seconds, to formulate a response. My mouth also opens and closes a number of times, as well, indicating a long string of false starts in the interim. Finally, the only sound I manage to produce is a quiet, "Oh."

His expression transforms again—this time into a warm smile. "If I am not as upset as you would deem appropriate given the circumstances, it is only because I very much doubt it will come to that. Just because my death is the outcome Lord Voldemort may want, that does not necessarily mean he will achieve that particular end." He eyes me for a moment or two, as if watching to see if I manage to calm down on my own, and finally adds, "Now, are you sure you won't have a spot of tea?"

I finally acquiesce, slinking back to the chair and sinking onto the edge with a small nod, rather ashamed of my outburst, in retrospect, and not only because I am supposed to be able to keep my temper under control these days. Was this simply more of my previous paranoia, rearing its ugly head again? Of course he wouldn't have thought I wanted to kill him. What was I thinking? Staring into my lap, as I am, I hardly notice the cup and saucer placed into my hand. In fact, were it not for the soft clatter of china—due to the adrenaline-induced tremors—I likely would not have detected their presence at all.

"Are you feeling any better now?"

I nod again, after taking a small sip from my cup. It is a bit of a fib, as my mood has scarcely altered in the last minute or so, but being less than honest is easier than bothering to explain.

"I wonder what you must think of me, Severus," the old man says, and only then do I look up. His expression is ... stricken. That is the only way to describe the ancient face. "To even entertain the notion that I could so glibly sentence you to kill me ... Do you believe that I have no consideration for you at all, or for the state of your soul?"

Only after I've opened my mouth to reply do I realise that I don't have the first clue what to say. Many, many times I've thought just that: that Dumbledore had no consideration for me whatsoever. That I, as a Slytherin, was beneath his notice—except, of course, when he had need of me. And, to tell the absolute truth, I am not entirely convinced, even now, that he doesn't think that way, even if he would stop just short of requiring murder. Still, this is a conversation I would prefer to save for another time. Instead of answering, I allow a scowl and a non-committal shrug speak for me.

"Well, if I have given you that impression, I can only say that I am heartily sorry."

I shrug again. Were I a normal person, I could be reasonably certain that the fault lay with Dumbledore and not myself. As it is, I cannot be sure, since I have developed false ideas such as that one all on my own, many times before. So did Dumbledore give me that impression, or did I give it to myself? That is a damned good question. I have no idea how long I sat there in silence, when Dumbledore clears his throat.

"I must go downstairs to meet James and Lily, when they arrive," he says, rising. "They will be understandably distressed at being roused by my Patronus in the middle of the night."

"Certainly, Headmaster," I answer with a nod, setting my nearly untouched tea back onto the tray he summoned earlier as I get to my feet. Before I've managed to take even one step toward the door, however, he grips my upper arm, looking into my eyes with his usual piercing gaze.

"I know you presently have a great deal weighing on your mind, Severus, but do try to get some sleep," he says gently. "You have done all the good that you possibly can for this evening."

"Yes, sir," I tell him, nodding. Though that, I am also reasonably sure, will be a lie. I fear a long night of tossing and turning awaits me, Time-Turner or no.

~*~*~#~*~*~

Only one night at Hogwarts, a partial one at that, and James is already growing restless. I fear this does not bode well for my proposed method of protecting him and Lily. Apart from my worries regarding the two of them, however, the meeting went well, and everyone—except for myself, of course—is in exceptionally good spirits. That will serve us well in the days ahead. With the last item on the agenda safely completed, the meeting around me soon dissolves into a number of separate conversations. I catch only a few snippets here and there, lost in my thoughts, until James commands the attention of the room, as he so often does.

"How did you word it, Lily?" he asks, turning to face his wife as he lays his arm across the back of her chair.

Lily smiles softly as she shifts the tiny bundle that is baby Harry in her arms. "I said I wasn't going to name my son anything with a number in it."

"Right," James answers with a grin, turning back to Frank. "So, James Peverell Potter the third was right out."

"It's pretentious," Lily cuts in, crinkling her nose in distaste.

"Hey!" James turns back to her, eyebrows rising. "That's my name."

"I know it is, darling," Lily answers soothingly, placing her hand on his arm. "But it's still pretentious."

Frank lets out a booming laugh, reminiscent of his mother, and claps James on the shoulder. "Bad luck, mate!"

"Well, I still wanted to name him after me dad," James answers with a shake of his head, "so we compromised."

"I wanted to go with Harold James," Lily adds, leaning her head down to nuzzle the baby's forehead. "Harold for my father, and James for his."

"But I thought Harold was pretentious, too," James adds with a shake of his head, "so we went with Harry, instead."

Lily pulls a face at the announcement, in front of most of the Order, that her father's name is pretentious, as well, but she says nothing. After all, she did only just say the same thing about both James and his father.

"I hope that he and Neville will be friends when they're older," Alice says, her cherubic face entirely lit up with a grin, which effectively pulls Lily out of the temporary emotional slump.

"I'm sure they will be." Lily smiles as well and pulls up a corner of Harry's blanket to wipe a bit of drool from the baby's mouth.

I take full advantage of the subsequent lull in the conversation, clearing my throat quietly. "James, Lily—if I could have a quick word with you both?"

Most everyone nods and rises from their chairs, making their way out of the staffroom shortly. Sirius is the last to leave, raising his eyebrows in James' direction, to which James nods, before he finally closes the door.

"Yeah, what's up?" James then asks, turning back in his seat to face me.

"We have a problem," I begin, folding my hands together on the table in front of me.

Lily sits up a bit straighter in her chair. "What sort of problem?"

"There was a prophecy made not too long ago—" I begin, but James promptly cuts me off. Patience, however, has never been his strong suit.

"A prophecy?" he asks with a frown, shaking his head. "What does that have to do with us?"

I sigh softly. "I was just getting to that." After clearing my throat, to make certain I have his attention, I continue. "This particular prophecy concerns the defeat of Lord Voldemort, and the child who will defeat him."

Lily hugs her child more tightly against her chest. "Is it Harry?" she asks, eyes wide with concern.

"That appears to be the conclusion that Voldemort has reached," I answer with a nod. "And obviously, because of that, the three of you are now in very real danger."

James gives a snort as he folds his arms over his chest. "And who told you about this prophecy?"

Sighing once more, I shake my head. "I'm afraid I cannot tell you that."

"Oh, nice," James answers, now rolling his eyes. "Is that why you sent us that Patronus in the middle of the night to bring us here? A tip from some shifty character, and you won't even tell us who?"

This, sadly, is what I feared would happen, but I imagine James' reaction would be a hundred times worse if he knew whence these tidings came. With a sigh, I look from one to the other, wearing a pleading expression. "I heard the prophecy with my own ears, James, and I have since hidden away the soothsayer for fear of her safety, as well."

"I'm not hiding my family on a hunch, Albus!"

"James," Lily interjects gently, again placing a hand on his arm. "Maybe he's right. You don't want You-Know-Who to come after Harry, do you?"

He sighs, raking a frustrated hand through his hair, and then brings both hands up to scrub his face, as if he might wash away the danger with some non-existent water. "Fine," he finally answers, lowering his hands with a sigh. "What—what do you want us to do?" One hand immediately goes around Lily's back, whilst the other clenches itself in his lap. In spite of the white-knuckled fist, I am gratified that James has decided to see reason.

"I intend to hide you both with the Fidelius Charm, and I will be your Secret-Keeper."

"No," James says immediately, shaking his head. "I want Sirius."

Pleased though I am that he has agreed to the plan—in theory, at least—I fear that Sirius would not be the ideal choice, and I tell him so. "I do not think that is a good idea, James."

"Why not?" he asks sharply, and his expression almost dares me to say something against his friend.

Unfortunately, I do have my reasons, even if James would undoubtedly not see it that way. "Sirius has been known to let important information slip when he is angry. I would feel better—"

But he cuts me off again. "You're never going to forgive him for that, are you?"

"James, this is not about my forgiveness!" I snap, wishing I could remain as calm as I would like, but the worry and frustration regarding this conversation appear to be taking their toll. "The consequences are so much more grave," I add, emphasizing the point by slapping my palm down on the staffroom table. "Your very lives are at stake!"

Lily looks from one of us to the other, clearly confused. Alas, I am not in the least bit surprised that she does not know the cause for James' ire and the reason behind my reservations. Tempting though it is to throw those past indiscretions in James' face, I manage to restrain myself. By this time, I have little doubt Lily knows that Remus is a werewolf, but on the off chance that she does not ... well, the conversation has already detoured more than I would like.

"I trust Sirius with my life," James grinds out slowly, between clenched teeth, effectively pulling me from my musings.

"I realise that, James," I answer, making a point to calmly clasp my hands in front of me on the table once more. "Sirius does have family ties with Death Eaters, however, and there is a spy amongst the Order. Until we have identified who it is, I would feel safer acting as Secret-Keeper for you both."

He turns to Lily, then, whose expression is unreadable, though she hugs baby Harry more tightly to her chest again. James sighs once more, facing me. "No," he answers simply, shaking his head. "You're wrong about Sirius, and I'll prove it. He is going to be our Secret-Keeper."

Lily looks, for a second or two, as if she is about to object, but she finally shakes her head. Sirius is the baby's godfather, after all, and evidently she is hesitant to admit her husband's trust might be misplaced.

"I beg you both to reconsider," I add then, quietly, even if my own knuckles have turned white with the pressure of gripping my own hands.

James shakes his head adamantly. "Sirius, or no one."

The ultimatum does not sit well with me, I must confess. I am not wholly convinced that being protected by a Fidelius Charm with Sirius Black as their Secret-Keeper is any protection at all. Still, it is obvious that James will not be moved, and so finally, after a long moment of silence, I nod. I can only hope that James is right about his friend.

~*~*~#~*~*~

The Dark Lord is gone. Upon hearing the news, the first thing I did was to head to the nearest loo and check my forearm. The Mark has faded to an almost imperceptible orange, but I knew that it would have changed, even before I rolled up my sleeve. Some of the magic appeared to have left it, and for the first time in many months, my arm once again seems to be my own. I wish, however, that I could feel like celebrating the news, because though he has been defeated, the victory is a Pyrrhic one, at best.

Despite my best efforts, James and Lily Potter are now dead. I may have loathed Potter—in fact, there is no "may" about it—but I never wanted him dead.

When I knock on Professor Dumbledore's office door, his less than cheerful, "Come in!" indicates that he has heard, as well. And when I open the door, he appears to be writing a letter, frowning all the while. He looks up, however, and waves a hand toward the chair across from his desk. Even this horrid turn of events cannot keep him from his carefully crafted manners.

Following his example, I wait silently until he has finished sealing the envelope before I even try to speak. Still, what is there to say?

"This is not your fault, Severus," Dumbledore says quietly, breaking the relative silence in his office. The only other noise is his phoenix, sharpening his beak on a cuttlebone.

"How can you say that?" I ask immediately. "If only I hadn't told him that prophecy—"

"What good would that have done?" he asks sharply, but then shakes his head with a sigh. "If you had not, then you would be dead now, as well, in addition to James and Lily." When I shake my head, he adds, "Do you think Voldemort would not have learned of the prophecy eventually, regardless? He has spies in the Ministry of Magic, in the Hall of Prophecy. No doubt they would have eventually discovered that prophecy and who made it. He might have even defiled poor Sibyll's mind to retrieve the information, leaving her as nothing more than an empty shell—as good as dead, herself."

I know he's right, and yet, I still cannot repress the sigh fighting to escape my lips, as I lean forward, with one elbow on the desk, rubbing my forehead.

"Besides, Severus—I am every bit as complicit in their deaths as you are." When I look up, he is shaking his head, that stricken expression on his ancient features once more. "You only took Voldemort the prophecy on my orders, to begin with." And again, he looks older than I have ever seen him. "Knowing James and Lily as I do—as I did, rather—I can honestly say both would have willingly given their lives to see him defeated. We must take whatever consolation we can from that, as well as the fact that their son survived."

Finally, I nod. "What should we do now?"

Dumbledore tilts his head with a slight shrug, as he rises to retrieve his cloak. "I have business in the Muggle world."

"The Muggle world?" I ask, eyebrows rising.

"Yes," he answers enigmatically, refusing at first to elaborate. Finally, however, he gives a resigned sigh and turns to face me once more. "The boy will need protection."

"The Potters' son?"

He nods. "Lord Voldemort will return, and when he does, he will set his sights on Harry."

"Surely you don't believe that prophecy rubbish?" I ask, shaking my head.

"I do not," Dumbledore answers with an adamant shake of his head, as well. "But Voldemort does, and so I must take steps to ensure the boy is safe. And you must be seen to commiserate with your fellow Death Eaters," he adds, pulling on his cloak. "We will have enough time to rest and regroup in the days to come, but we must keep up appearances, for the time being." The Headmaster then tucks the envelope into a pocket of his cloak, before opening the door. We walk from his office in silence, past the gargoyle, down to the front steps of the castle, and along the drive, though he stops just outside the winged boars, in order to give me another caution. "Do be careful tonight, Severus. No doubt some of your fellow Death Eaters will blame you."

I nod again. Of course they will, and I've a fairly good idea of just which ones. "I'll be fine, Professor," I assure him, pulling my wand to Disapparate. When I come to rest, just outside the gates to the Malfoys' manor, I take a deep breath to steel myself for the coming confrontation. Bellatrix will undoubtedly be there, and of all the Death Eaters, she is the most likely to lay the blame at my feet.

No sooner than the house-elf shows me into the parlour does she launch herself at me, wand quite forgotten, beating her fists against my chest. "You killed him, Snape!" she screeches. "You and your bloody Prophecy! You filthy half-blood traitor!"

I've barely time to flinch, much less deflect any of the blows, but in another second, Lucius strides forward, wrenching her away from me with a hand clamped around each of her wrists. "Stop it, Bella!" he bellows. "This won't bring him back!"

Only then do I realise that Bellatrix is crying—actually crying—but she quickly turns to face the hearth, wiping angrily at her eyes with her sleeve. "I'll find him," she answers through a barely contained sob.

"There's no hope of that," Lucius answers with a shake of his head, before turning to me. "Severus, do allow me to apologise for my sister-in-law. She has taken the news especially hard."

"It's all right, Lucius," I say with a shake of my head. I cast an uncertain glance at Bellatrix. Never in my life have I witnessed her crying. If it hadn't been for our recent falling out, regarding my disappearance, I might be expected to comfort her. We were friends at school, after all. Lucius gives me a small, bracing smile, taking in my apparent hesitation. Evidently, that is a good enough act to dispel any questions as to my loyalties.

Narcissa enters after a moment, carrying her chubby toddler of a son. Unlike her sister, she looks a bit relieved at the Dark Lord's disappearance—or at least until she spots me. Then she blanches. Though I've not seen Draco in ages, I know better than to ask if I might hold him. She still hasn't forgiven me, but I cannot say that I blame her. Still, she manages to regain her composure after a few seconds. "Hello, Severus," she says by way of polite greeting. "Can I get you anything?"

"I'm fine, thank you," I reply, shortly before their elf brings in a tray bearing a bottle and glasses. That is elf-made wine; I recognise the label immediately, and Madam Pomfrey said it wouldn't hurt me to drink that. "Well, maybe just a sip."

Lucius' eyebrow rise. "I thought you couldn't..." A flicker of something dangerously close to suspicion crosses his face, but he shakes his head a second later.

As do I. "Elf-made wine isn't strong enough to hurt me," I reply, and his expression clears, as he nods, before pouring me a glass, in addition to one for himself and Bellatrix. Narcissa doesn't drink, however, as she has her hands full—quite literally—with a squirming Draco.

"We must decide what we are all going to do now," Lucius announces, heading toward an armchair with his glass. He sits, but doesn't drink straightaway, rolling his glass between his palms for a long moment. Like Narcissa, he is paler than usual, as well, though he does appear to have his wits about him.

After a moment, in anticipation of his telling me not to hover, I retrieve a glass and settle myself on the settee opposite him.

Lucius finally takes a sip and lowers his glass thoughtfully. "The Ministry will begin rounding up suspected Death Eaters before long. I think our best chance is to claim we have all been acting under the Imperius Curse. Giving mounds of gold to aid in their efforts couldn't hurt, either."

Behind him, Bellatrix turns from the hearth, making both a disgusted noise and face. "How quickly your allegiances change, my dear brother-in-law! Does loyalty mean nothing to you?"

"It's not a question of loyalty, Bella, but one of survival," Lucius insists, setting down his glass. "None of us is any use to the Dark Lord from inside Azkaban. And if he really is dead—"

"Don't say that!" Bellatrix shrieks, shaking two fists in the air.

"—then the dementors will soon be guarding the prison in earnest!" Lucius continues, undaunted, turning in his chair to face her. "Don't let your ardour for the Dark Lord be your undoing!"

Lucius rarely raises his voice, so the fact that he has this time says, quite clearly, that he is unnerved. That, frankly, is as rare as Bellatrix's tears. Her displays of temper are so much more the norm. Like the one we are treated to now.

She fumes for a few seconds, glaring between the two of us, but then—without so much as a word—she crosses the room to retrieve her cloak.

Lucius stands, with a tense, "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to find him!"

He is level with her in two strides and grabs her arm. "Don't be a fool!"

"Don't you dare tell me what to do!" Bellatrix pulls her wand, sparks flying from the tip. "Stay here in your comfortable little house, with your pretty little wife, and your perfect little son, and your filthy half-blood traitor of a friend." She pauses only long enough to sneer, draping her cloak over her arm. "When I find him, I will be rewarded beyond all of you—you mark my words." And with that, she storms out.

Lucius stares at the empty doorway for a long moment, as if expecting her to return, before he finally turns to Narcissa. "Aren't you going after her? She is family," he says, spitting out the last word as if it were rancid meat.

At his query, Narcissa merely straightens in her chair, clutching Draco to her chest. With the way he is squirming, I imagine he wants nothing more than to be put down so that he can crawl about the room. Considering that he might crawl to me, however, Narcissa is not likely to risk it.

"My place is with my husband and son." She looks as if she is going to say something else but, after a quick glance in my direction, thinks better of it. I suddenly feel as if I am intruding on something private, some argument that began before my appearance. The fact that Lucius chose to mention it in front of me, even obliquely, seems to be a mark of how close a friend he considers me, still. That could be useful, at some point.

Lucius finally nods, looking a bit relieved, and resumes his seat. "The only question now is, should we go to the Ministry first, or wait for them to come to us?" When Narcissa doesn't answer, he turns to me. "What do you think?"

"I have no influence with the Ministry," I answer, shaking my head. "So whether I give myself up or am dragged before the Wizengamot kicking and screaming hardly matters." Then I shrug. "Whatever the circumstances, Dumbledore will vouch for me."

Lucius' eyebrows rise again at that. "You're sure?"

I nod and shrug once more, raising my glass for a sip. "What can I say? He's a trusting old fool."

Seeing as he made me kill that woman under Imperio, I would like nothing better than to make certain Lucius rots in Azkaban until the end of his days. Since Dumbledore is sure that the Dark Lord will return, however, I do not have the luxury of petty vengeance. I must play the role of Death Eater convincingly still, and tell Lucius the best course to keep his sorry arse out of prison. Unfortunately.

"The Ministry will be much more inclined to believe your story," I continue, with a nod in his direction, "should you surrender yourself willingly and say that your recollection of the past few years is sketchy, at best. And, of course, as you said earlier, mounds of gold can only help your case."

Lucius nods and raises his glass, which he leans forward to clink against mine. "Here's to hoping that my dear sister-in-law doesn't make difficulties."

I give an amused, "Hm," followed by another nod. "I will certainly drink to that."


	14. Dismissal

[U]se every man / after his desert, and who should 'scape whipping? / Use them after your own honour and dignity: the less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty. — _Hamlet_, Act II, Scene 2

**Dismissal**

My last appointment of the day before tea with the Minister of Magic comes as no surprise whatsoever. Severus is nervous—as I would be, were I in his position—regarding the meeting I will be having this afternoon. Although he has not spoken since entering my office, I can tell. He wrings his hands in his lap, which is something I have not seen him do for few years now, and there is undeniable fear in his eyes. This is a far cry from his normal manner. In the past few months since Lord Voldemort's fall, he has settled into a comfortable routine and has, in my opinion, acclimated quite well to living and teaching at Hogwarts. At least until today. His agitation this afternoon is perfectly understandable, however, and hopefully, it will only be temporary, as well.

"Do not fret, m'boy," I tell him quietly, with a shake of my head. "This meeting is more or less a formality. I will vouch for you—with only as much detail as is absolutely necessary—and I very much doubt that charges will even be filed."

His expression goes from worried to confused in what has to be record time. Not two seconds later, however, he frowns and shakes his head, as well. "No, it isn't that," he answers, and his gaze once more falls to the hands in his lap. "I know you'll vouch for me. I told Lucius Malfoy that very thing not so long ago, even." He shrugs and adds, "I explained it away by saying that you're a trusting old fool, but I was never worried about that."

My eyebrows rise. If my testimony was not his concern, then I wonder what brought him to my office today. He was most insistent regarding this appointment, even if my schedule was full to bursting. I have already opened my mouth to ask him what is worrying him, then, but I am distracted when Fawkes suddenly leaves his perch, giving two flaps of his wings before he settles on Severus' shoulder. His eyes widen momentarily, and then he fairly scowls.

Despite the fact that Severus is obviously not at all pleased by my pet's unexpected display of affection, I could not be more so. Knowing him as I do, I know that Fawkes would never show such attention to anyone who is not completely loyal to me. It simply is not in a phoenix's nature. After all the suspicions in the past, all the times Severus was convinced that I was attempting to control him for some nefarious purpose, Fawkes' landing on his shoulder could not be a more welcome occurrence. At least to me.

"Get off!" Severus snaps at the bird, rolling said shoulder in an attempt to make Fawkes take flight once more.

My phoenix is a beautiful bird, and I could ask for no better pet, but he is also a large bird and not light by any stretch of the imagination. I daresay a swan of comparable weight landing on his shoulder would be no more desirable. So, although I am pleased beyond words, I can also understand Severus' point of view.

"That will do, Fawkes," I say quietly.

Fawkes cocks his head to one side, surveying me through one dark, beady eye, before he pushes off Severus' shoulder and returns, docilely, to his perch. Once he is settled, and no longer appears in danger of accosting my guest, I turn back to Severus.

"Forgive me," I say, but he only shakes his head. I cannot entirely control my pet, and he undoubtedly knows this. I take a deep breath, then, leaning forward in my chair and folding my hands on the desk in front of me. "If you are not concerned regarding my testimony, what is it then? What is troubling you so?"

He raises his gaze to meet mine for a short instant, before looking down at his lap once more. "I, ah ... I worry that they—the Wizengamot, I mean—might be able to connect me to that Muggle woman's murder." His eyes flick up in my direction again, before he looks down, and from the movement of his (now unburdened, at least physically) shoulders, I can only guess that he is twisting his hands even more vigorously than before.

That is certainly a valid cause for concern. Or it would be, if the Ministry concerned themselves with the disappearances of Muggles. Alas, they do not—not to the extent that I believe they should, at least—but that is too harsh an indictment of the powers that be, so I will spare him the tirade, just now.

"I sincerely doubt that they will forge such a connection, Severus," I answer with a shake of my head. "A random Muggle woman, snatched with no rhyme or reason? The odds are very much against it, I do believe."

His shoulders work less violently now, and he looks up again. "But if they do?"

"If they do," I continue, in as patient a tone as I can manage, "then I will do everything in my power to convince them that you were not capable of understanding what you were doing at that particular point in time." I lower my head then, regarding him seriously over the top of my spectacles. "If it does come to that, do I have your permission to furnish them with your medical records, as evidence to support my claims?"

Severus fairly scowls again at the prospect. I know that he finds his condition to be an embarrassment, and were his ailment to become common knowledge, he would more than likely be forced to resign his position at Hogwarts. I also hope that it would not come to that, because inside these walls, I may offer him protection as well as employment. Outside them, I can guarantee neither.

Finally, after a long moment of thought, he gives a hesitant nod.

"Very well," I reply, nodding myself. "But I am almost certain that it will not come to that."

When he looks up again, his attention is immediately drawn to the clock when it chimes, and I rise from my chair. "I really must be going now, Severus," I say with a sigh. I wish there were more I could do just now to reassure him, although we both know that there is not.

With a resigned nod, he rises as well, forcing his hands to remain at his sides, I am certain, instead of twisting them even more as he leaves my office. Outside the gargoyle at the foot of the spiral staircase, I give him a bracing pat on the shoulder, and a reassuring smile, before we part.

Once I arrive at the Ministry, I am immediately shown into Millicent Bagnold's office. The tea things are already laid out, and she smiles, setting aside a letter and pulling off her reading glasses, letting them dangle from the cord around her neck. "Good afternoon, Albus," she says, gesturing toward the chair across from her desk. "How are you?"

I take a seat, with a smile of my own, as she begins to pour the tea. "I am very well, Millicent, thank you. And you?"

"Fine, fine," she answers, handing a cup to me across the desk.

This is not the most conventional means of providing evidence, I daresay. Given my position in the Wizengamot, as well as my close, personal friendship with the Minister of Magic, my request for private testimony was naturally heeded. Doing so over tea and cake, however, is only an added benefit. Although before we launch into the particulars of Severus' case, we take a few moments to have a pleasant chat, while the cake steadily dwindles, and until the cups have to be refilled.

"So ... this Potions master of yours," she begins, stirring her second cup and leaning forward in her chair. "He was a Death Eater, correct?"

I nod, grateful that she has decided not to mince words. "Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater; however, he re-joined our side before Lord Voldemort's downfall and turned spy for us, at great personal risk. He is now no more a Death Eater than I am."

She makes sceptical noise. "And you expect that little proclamation to sway the Wizengamot?"

"I do not," I answer, with a shake of my head. "I do, however, expect it to sway you."

"Albus—" she begins in a warning tone, but I do not allow her to finish the admonition.

"How long have we known each other, Millicent?"

The stern look she has been giving me is replaced, momentarily, by a wistful smile. "Seventy-five, or is it seventy-six years?"

I nod. "And in all that time, have you ever known me to extend my neck in such a fashion for someone whom I do not fully trust?"

"No, I cannot say that I have," Millicent says with a sigh, setting down her cup. "But you have to understand my position, Albus. After all the destruction He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named caused, people want justice."

"Justice, or revenge?" I ask, raising my eyebrows.

She tilts her head, giving me a sad smile. "Perhaps a bit of both. But can you really blame them?"

I nod once more. "I can—if they intend to exact that revenge on those who have done no wrong, and have in fact done much good."

Millicent eyes me for a long moment, before sighing once more and taking another sip of her tea. "There is more to this matter than you are telling me."

Now a slight shrug accompanies my nod. "There is. I would be a fool to deny it."

"But you won't tell me what?" she prompts, eyebrows rising.

"Not unless absolutely necessary."

"Not even off the record?"

This time, my eyebrows rise. "I was under the impression that none of this conversation was on the record. Apart from my little proclamation, that is. You may feel free to quote me on that."

Millicent's lips purse rather unattractively, and she moves them back and forth for a few seconds, in a gesture reminiscent of sloshing a collutory around one's mouth before expectoration. Sans collutory, of course. "Very well, Albus," she says at last, with a resigned nod. "I am going to trust you on this, and I hope that it does not come back to haunt me."

"I can give you my most sincere assurances, Millicent, that it will not," I answer quietly, with a smile.

After perching her reading glasses on her nose once more, she pulls a quill to her, followed by a piece of parchment, and scribbles down a note. "I will quash any charges Magical Law Enforcement intends to pursue with regards to one Severus Snape."

"Thank you," I reply, giving her a warm smile.

"Oh, don't bother to thank me," she says, looking up briefly with a positively evil grin, although she does not cease writing. "If and when this issue rears its ugly head once more, I will more than likely be retired, and you can deal with the repercussions."

"I will happily do so," I answer with a chuckle, shaking my head. "Although not as Minister of Magic. I have absolutely no interest in your job, Millicent."

"None at all?" she asks, and now she does stop writing, blinking at me for a second before she resumes, shaking her head. "Yours is the only name I've heard bandied about, whenever I've mentioned retirement. Well, apart from Barty Crouch."

I cannot say that I consider Bartemius to be especially suited to the post, especially given his fanaticism during the war, but ... better him than me. Regardless, I give a Millicent a smile. "Then I wish him the best of luck. But I have taken up far too much of your time already—"

"Nonsense," she answers with a dismissive wave. "I always have time for an old friend."

"Nevertheless," I continue with a warm smile, "I too must return to my true calling."

Millicent nods, but a second later she removes her glasses again, peering at me intently. "You really trust this Snape fellow, do you?" she asks, before moving one of the earpieces to her mouth.

My first impulse, I regret to report, is to say that I have to trust Severus. What other choice is there? I do not, however, tell Millicent that. Such a declaration would hardly be conducive to her taking his part with our peers on the Wizengamot. At this precise moment, Severus needs as many advocates as he can get. Starting with me.

"Of course I do," I answer, with a nod. "Do you think I would allow him to teach children, otherwise?"

She removes the earpiece from her lips with a sigh. "No, I suppose you wouldn't," she answers, replacing her reading glasses on her nose once more. "Well, I will do all I can for him, Albus, and I will let you know straightaway if it seems that there will be any complications."

"Thank you again, Millicent," I say, rising from my chair. "And I do hope that you have a pleasant evening."

"Likewise," she answered with a nod, already engrossed in her next bit of correspondence, so I cheerfully see myself out.

All she can do is quite a bit, I know, so I am not the least bit surprised when Severus' name appears on the list of suspected Death Eaters cleared by a subcommittee of Wizengamot, without formal charges ever being filed. More troubling is the presence of Lucius Malfoy's name on the same list, but that cannot be helped at the present time. I would much prefer for a few true Death Eaters to walk free than for innocents like Severus to suffer unduly. Or at least that is how I felt before the attack on the Longbottoms.

I can only hope that Severus did not have any involvement in that unfortunate affair—unwittingly or otherwise, and I curse myself for even thinking such a thing. He has not been acting oddly, so he is evidently still taking his potions. I suppose that I must simply have faith in him. After all, Fawkes would never have taken to him if I could not trust him, as well.

~*~*~#~*~*~

I have to be exceedingly careful with new people, which poses a problem, as I average forty new faces in my classroom in any given year. My third year of teaching, I had a pupil whom I invented entirely. Thankfully, he was a well-behaved and quiet boy, so my other students never witnessed my talking to him—or worse, shouting at him—during lessons. In fact, I don't recall that he ever spoke as much as a single word in three whole terms. I should have known, I suppose, from the silver hair, but that is not always as simple as it may sound, in theory. Not when one's mind is so very practiced at deceit. And I cannot very well ask my other students, "Can you see this person, as well?" What on earth would they think?

The Headmaster was confused, naturally, when I turned in exam results for little Kevin Tipton at the end of the summer term. Considering some of the hallucinations I have experienced, however, this polite Ravenclaw first year was a welcome change. In fact, I cannot be certain that my mind did not decide I could use a friend. He was undoubtedly a natural at Potions. Thankfully, Madam Pomfrey was good enough to help me adjust my dosages, and there have been no repeats—or at least none of that magnitude. I still experience the occasional hallucination, and I am naturally more prone to them whenever I am tired or stressed, but my days of fabricating entire students appear to be over.

On the other hand, Professor Dumbledore suggested that I start taking attendance on the first day of the autumn term, to help identify any such apparitions straightaway. I cannot be certain that my crafty mind will not discover another way to outwit me in the future, but so far, his advice has helped.

At least until recently. It doesn't help matters that I now have a pupil who can change her appearance at will. Miss Tonks' Metamorphmagus abilities appear to have fully manifested at some point during the previous term, and now she can change her facial features as easily as she might change her clothes. Every time I take the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws for Potions, I have to make doubly sure that she is the same person I have been teaching for five years, and not some new, insidious manifestation of my symptoms. Luckily, she seems to be fond of bright, garish pastels and doesn't come to class with silver hair. I am not sure how well I would cope with such a thing.

The girl is convinced that I hate her, I am certain, when nothing could be further from the truth. But I cannot very well explain that her appearance—or the mercurial nature thereof, to be more precise—frightens me. For one thing, that wouldn't be very professional. For another, it would be more than a little hypocritical, considering the number of students who find my appearance frightening. So instead, I must simply suffer this burden in silence, and hope that the girl confines her shape shifting to others' lessons. And, of course, I hope that she will choose to opt out of NEWT-level Potions. Despite her dreadful clumsiness, however, she is a fairly good potion-maker, so I doubt that I shall be so lucky.

Once the bell sounds, I step to the front of the room and perch just on the edge of my desk. "Before we begin today's lesson," I begin, looking out over the sea of (thankfully familiar) faces, "I think it appropriate to remind you that next June you will be sitting an important examination, during which you will prove how much you have learnt about the composition and use of magical potions. After this year, of course, many of you will cease studying with me. I take only the very best into my NEWT Potions class, which means that some of us will certainly be saying goodbye."

Here, a few students always sit up straighter in their chairs, and another few mime cheering that they think I cannot see. Yes, I am schizophrenic, but I am not blind, thank-you-very-much. Well, not that any of them know about my condition. Professor Dumbledore thinks it a good idea that no one know, apart from my fellow members of the staff. With the pervasive stigma attached to mental disorders, parents would begin pulling their children out of Hogwarts left and right. In fact, they would likely be more alarmed at my schizophrenia than to learn I was a Death Eater.

After clearing my throat, I continue. "But we have another year to go before that moment of farewell, so, whether or not you are intending to attempt NEWT, I advise all of you to concentrate your efforts upon maintaining the high pass level I have come to expect from my OWL students." Now, there is a general commotion as students get out textbooks and Potions kits, scales and cauldrons. I pause for only a few seconds, to allow the din to die down, before continuing.

"Today we will be mixing a potion that often comes up at Ordinary Wizarding Level: the Draught of Peace, a potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation." And a potion with which I have been intimately familiar over the past several years, but I fail to mention that. "Be warned: if you are too heavy-handed with the ingredients you will put the drinker into a heavy and sometimes irreversible sleep, so you will need to pay close attention to what you are doing." Again, one group of pupils sit up straighter, and the other group roll their eyes at me. No, I am not exaggerating, you insolent pint-sized delinquents. Would you like the names of a few Incurables at St. Mungo's who did nothing more than have a sip of a badly brewed Draught of Peace?

"The ingredients and method are on the blackboard." I wave my wand in that direction, and the instructions I wrote out before the lesson appear. "You will find everything you need in the store cupboard." Another wave of my wand, and the door opens. "You have an hour and a half ... start."

Almost immediately, Miss Tonks' hand shoots into the air. Today her hair is a bright, fluorescent green, but other than that, her appearance is unaltered.

"Yes, Miss Tonks?" I ask, with a soft sigh, and unfortunately, I cannot quite meet her eyes. I can only hope, again, that she doesn't notice.

"Er, yeah, Professor," she begins, one finger planted on a page in the textbook, whilst her gaze shifts back and forth between the location in her book and the blackboard. "I think you've made a mistake with the recipe." Leave it to her to read ahead. "On the first line, it says to cut the caterpillars lengthwise."

I give her a curt nod, still not meeting her eyes. "I am aware of that, Miss Tonks, but if you cut the caterpillars diagonally—as I have indicated—you will find that you achieve better results."

"But the book says—"

"I know what the book says," I snap, a bit impatiently. I have made cauldronful after cauldronful of this potion, myself. I know the best way to produce it, regardless of what this author may think. "Books are written by people, who are fallible, and therefore, those books may also contain mistakes."

For next year, however, I shall have to look into finding a new textbook. One that does not include incorrect instructions for the Draught of Peace.

For a moment, she looks as if she is about to answer back once more—probably something along the lines of I am a person, as well, and so I can make mistakes just as easily—but she appears to think better of it at the last second. After all, I do have a reputation for taking points unfairly from any House but Slytherin, which can be useful on occasion. Like now. Besides, her precious ninety minutes to produce the potion in question are steadily slipping away. So, she puts her hand down, finally, and the tint of her hair mutes a bit as she begins cutting up her caterpillars—diagonally, I notice. Good. At least I got through to her.

Just a bit over an hour later, I look up from the papers I am marking, through the haze of steam pervading the classroom. "A light silver vapour should now be rising from your potion," I say, rising from my desk. Miss Tonks' hand goes up again, though not nearly as quickly as before. I also can't help noticing that her hair is barely green at all, now. Just a faded silvery-white, with only the slightest hint of green. I've already opened my mouth to ask what she wants (this time), but I don't have the chance.

"Professor, I don't feel very well," she says, slowly. Her eyes then roll, and she slumps sideways in her chair, a trickle of silver trailing from the corner of her mouth.

Several other pupils, in rapid succession, keel over sideways in their chairs as well, and a cold chill washes over me, as I try to think what exactly might have caused this. Never in my life have I heard of a Draught of Peace so potent that the fumes alone put the drinker to sleep. Though Miss Tonks is in the worst state, as she has obviously drunk some, as well. I arrive at her worktable in three strides and reach out to check for a pulse, when it dawns on me.

Silver.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and curl my outstretched fingers into my palm. When I've opened my eyes, Miss Tonks is conscious, with glowing green hair again, and she stares at my fist with wide eyes. "Is something the matter, Professor?" she asks, in a tense voice, almost as if she thinks I am about to strike her. The other students are wide awake and all staring at me, as well. I draw my hand back slowly, swallowing, and shake my head. With the silver vapours this potion produces, apparently I didn't notice the hallmarks of a hallucination. Not straightaway.

"Ah ... no, Miss Tonks," I finally say, with another shake of my head. "Your potion looks excellent," I tell her then. To cover the awkward moment, I add, "As I said, cutting the caterpillars diagonally produces the best results." After clearing my throat, I turn to the class at large. "All of you, fill one flagon with a sample of your potion, label it clearly with your name, and bring it up to my desk for testing. Homework: twelve inches of parchment on the properties of moonstone and its uses in potion-making, to be handed in on Friday."

I return to my desk at the front of the room, resisting the considerable urge to bury my face in my hands, but with difficulty. Instead I sit and lean an elbow on the wood in front of me, reaching up to rub my eyes. The murmurs all around me in the classroom sound like the students, but at the moment, I cannot be entirely certain. It is easier, and less painful, simply not to look as they clear away. Finally the bell rings, effectively rescuing me from the embarrassment, and thankfully, once the classroom has emptied, there is silence. Real, unimagined silence. Thank God. At least, until a timid voice rings out through the room, echoing off the stone walls in the pervading quiet.

"Professor Snape ... are you okay?"

I drop my hand from my eyes with a start and look up to see Miss Tonks standing there, frowning down at me with anxious, but thankfully dark, eyes. My gaze meets hers for only a fraction of a second, before I swallow again and look away. "I am fine, Miss Tonks," I answer, a bit more shortly than I intended, before adding a quiet, "But I do thank you for your concern."

After a long moment of feeling her eyes on me, she finally nods and turns to go. I am fine, unfortunately. For me, this is fine. Or as fine as I ever will be. At the very least, I will know to be more careful when it comes to conducting this particular lesson in the future.

~*~*~#~*~*~

"Quirrell? You can't be serious!"

Severus blinks at me through narrowed eyes, in that surprised yet suspicious look that I have come to know so well.

"And just what is wrong with Professor Quirrell?" I attempt to keep anything resembling mirth from my face and out of my voice, as Severus does not especially care for it when I become amused at his predicament. This time, however, my question could not be more sincere.

"What's wrong with him?" he asks, faintly, gazing at me as if I've sprouted an extra head this morning. "He's afraid of his own bloody shadow these days, that's what's wrong with him."

Severus' classroom manner might not be the most conventional, but if I had begun my career with teaching students who remembered me from my own school days, I cannot say I would not overemphasise sternness, either. He simply has not bothered to alter his approach to teaching since then, to keep order during his lessons. Order is, after all, exceedingly important to him. We each have our own style; Hogwarts would be rather bland if we did not. And of course the students have certainly been performing well, as far as their scores are concerned. I do believe that teaching Potions is where Severus belongs, even if he might want the Defence job.

When Professor Wigworthy retired, in order to write his book, I thought the opportunity an exceptional one. This turn of events afforded me the chance to promote Severus to Head of Slytherin, as well as hire Quirinus to take over the vacated Muggle Studies post. I must admit I had not expected Quirinus to apply to teach Defence—especially following his disastrous sabbatical. So in that way, I certainly take Severus' point. Alas, my pool of applicants continues to dwindle yearly, however, and as I had only one other candidate for the position this year, I hadn't much choice. The other applicant, of course, is sitting across from me just now, but when I reminded him to submit his _curriculum vitae_ at the beginning of the summer, as usual, I thought he fully grasped the situation.

"Forgive me, Severus," I answer with a shake of my head. "When I asked you to apply for the Defence position every year, I thought you still understood that it was merely to keep up appear—"

"Don't patronise me, old man!" he snaps, the suspicious look replaced at once with a glare. "I may not be as clever as you, but I knew perfectly well what you meant."

That causes me to smile, which I fear only arouses his ire more. The expression, however, is only because I believe Severus is every bit as clever as I am, even if he has considerably less life experience in terms of years. Then again, in terms of the hardships he has experienced, he could no doubt teach me a thing or two, and he certainly has, if I am honest with myself.

"If you did not want the post yourself, Severus, then what precisely is your concern?" I ask, once again repressing the smile in deference to his pique.

"My concern," he continues, and I can tell he is trying very hard not to speak through gritted teeth, "is how the students are to obtain a proper grounding in Defence if their teacher cannot even lecture them on the subject without twitching. Quirrell will be a laughingstock."

That is unfortunately true, and Quirinus has been the object of derision during his Muggles Studies lessons for the past year, as well. On the other hand, were I to ask for his resignation due to the pupils' less than generous opinion of him and his teaching abilities, I might have to let Severus go, as well. He is far from popular, except amongst his Slytherins.

"I fear that is simply my cross to bear," I answer at last, before handing him the rolls for this year's Potions students.

The glare resumes in full force; obviously Severus does not care for my disregarding his concerns this way, but it cannot be helped. Not with the rumours circulating with regards to the Defence post. Pickings are slim, and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future.


	15. Dissemblance

That you must teach me. But let me conjure you ... be even and direct with me, / whether you were sent for, or no? — _Hamlet_, Act II, Scene 2

**Dissemblance**

I retire to my room with the Potions rolls Professor Dumbledore gave me and a pounding headache. Ever since my new dosages were started, I have not quite got the timing right with my headache remedy. A normal person can take one teaspoonful a day and be right as rain, but I have to stomach that green muck every eight hours. Or at least it used to be eight. I may have to try every six hours, now.

Though I cannot say I am not accustomed to this headache remedy, after the number of times my mother gave it to me, when I was younger. I often told her that there was something wrong with my head. Of course, my father being the violent drunk that he was, and considering Ophelia's death, at first she immediately took that to mean my head was somehow hurting or injured. After a frantic search of my scalp for any blood, she told me to stop wasting her time. And then, after a while, she simply took to shovelling this gelatinous mess into my mouth, instead.

I was too young, and evidently too sick, to explain that the problem was with my brain, rather than my head. But I knew, even then, that something was amiss.

Once the headache finally begins to subside, I stretch out on my bed with the pieces of parchment, to look them all over. I mark a few sixth years' names, to investigate later and make certain that they did indeed earn an "Outstanding" on their OWLs, and then immediately shuffle to the list of first years. And halfway down the page, I smile. "Malfoy, Draco." So Lucius and Narcissa have decided to send him to Hogwarts, after all. I know there has been some contention on the subject.

Lucius wanted to send Draco to Durmstrang, but Narcissa didn't like the idea of him going to school so far away. I thought, knowing that I would be Draco's Head of House might have tipped the scales in favour of Durmstrang in Narcissa's mind, as well, but apparently she has finally forgiven me, or at least to the extent that she will trust Draco to my care nine months of the year. Provided he writes to her often, I imagine, to report on any questionable behaviours that I may exhibit. Hopefully, I will provide no such fodder for his letters.

That is reason enough to continue taking my potions with renewed vigilance, even if I weren't concerned with hurting the boy when I am unmedicated. But I am. Concerned, that is, as opposed to unmedicated. That memory—amongst others, of course—haunts me still, though it has been years, now. To know that I myself hurt Draco when I wanted nothing more than to protect him ... it is a bitter potion to swallow, even after all this time. I know now that it is the truth, however, after having witnessed my own memory of the event.

A bit further down the roll, I encounter another name that jolts something within me. "Potter, Harry." I am not entirely certain how to feel about that. Teaching the boy whose parents I got killed.

The Headmaster said it was not my fault, of course, but that is solely his opinion. Whatever Dumbledore may think, and however many may look up to him, he is not the final arbiter of moral rectitude in the wizarding world. So his pronouncement that the blame does not, in fact, rest upon my shoulders does little to assuage my feelings of guilt. Either about the Potters or that Muggle woman I killed. The Dark Lord may have killed the former two, and Lucius might have precipitated the death of the latter, but without my assistance, none of them would have died. At least in my opinion, even if Dumbledore may disagree.

"Wake up, you lazy whelp! You'll miss the Sorting!"

My eyes snap open at the shouting from just above my head, and I reach up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes with a groan. "I'm awake," I murmur, gathering up the Potions rolls that have scattered themselves on the bed during my nap, and stacking them neatly on the bedside table, once I sit up.

"About time, too!" my great grandfather's portrait answers, with a disdainful sniff. "Thought I was going to have to enlist half the Heads to rouse you."

"Well, I'm awake now," I say, smirking, as I shake my head. "And I wouldn't miss the sorting, anyway. I have a Time-Turner, haven't I?"

"I have a Time-Turner, haven't I?" he repeats, his tone mocking. "I'll have none of your cheek either, boy."

"I'm not a boy any longer, in case you haven't noticed," I say, as he folds his arms over his chest, fixing me with a glare that looks remarkably like my mother's. "And Dumbledore gave me that Time-Turner to make certain I got enough sleep."

"Hmph. Thought of everything, haven't you? Well, we'll see if I do you any more favours."

With that, he stalks off, leaving his frame empty. But it's just as well. Smartening myself up whilst arguing with a portrait is hardly my favourite pastime, even if I wanted to ask how jolting me awake from a restful nap qualifies as doing me a favour. In the loo, I brush my teeth and comb my hair, avoiding my reflection entirely, and not ten minutes later, I've arrived at the High Table. I sit in the last available chair, second from the end, which is unfortunately next to Quirrell. Hopefully Dumbledore hasn't mentioned our little altercation this afternoon to him. I can scarcely abide the odious smell coming from his turban, but I don't think the stench is my imagination. The other members of the staff pull faces, as well, whenever he gets too close these days.

"D-didn't th-think you were going t-to m-make it, Severus," Quirrell says, with a small but knowing smile as I sit.

"Well, I have," I answer shortly, trying my best not to sigh.

The doors to entrance hall open not a second later, and Professor McGonagall leads in the first years. The lot of them will be some combination of fascinated and terrified, as always, so it hardly matters that I can barely make out their faces at this distance. I simply imagine wide eyes and round mouths, and that is likely a close enough approximation. Though I can clearly make out one head of white blond hair, which brings an undeniable smile to my face. He'd better be in Slytherin is all I can say.

The hat barely touches his silver head before I get my wish, along with eight other proud, young faces: Millicent Bulstrode, Vincent Crabbe, Tracey Davis, Gregory Goyle, Daphne Greengrass, Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson, and Blaise Zabini. I would like to have another girl, to make a complete set, but still, I give each a satisfied smile and nod as they join the Slytherin table, and I can only hope that I do not let them down.

Professor Dumbledore rises once Zabini is seated, to welcome them all, though his "speech", such as it is, leaves a great deal to be desired.

"Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

_Good God!_ I think, rolling my eyes. And yet, I'm the "crazy" one.

The Great Hall dissolves into a buzz of conversations, and as expected, Quirrell turns to me, wearing an expectant look. "Q-quite the f-fuss a-b-bout P-potter, eh?"

"I suppose," I answer with a shrug, serving myself some potatoes. If the boy is anything at all like his father, no doubt the applause will have already gone to his head.

"A r-real celebrity," Quirrell continues, undaunted by my all too apparent reticence.

The last thing I want to talk about is Potter. That, along with the odour from his turban, will successfully put me off my food.

"I m-met him, you know. In D-diagon Alley. When he was b-buying his b-books and sup-p-plies."

"Hmm," is my only answer, around a bite of roast.

When I lean forward, to get a drink, the Potter boy is staring straight at me, looking like a perfect miniature of his father. Except for the eyes. His eyes are silver, just like his mother's.

Next to me at the table, I hear Quirrell inhale with a hiss, and at that precise moment, my left forearm gives a twinge. Except when I turn to face him, Quirrell is happily chewing, so he couldn't have made that sound, and my Dark Mark has been dormant for nearly ten years.

No—green. Lily Potter's eyes were green, not silver. I am only imagining things again. The pain, the hiss, the eyes, the odour ... well, perhaps not the odour, but I cannot be certain that I am smelling the same exact scent that the other staff have. I've worked it out, now. That's right, senses. Do you hear me? You are only trying to hoodwink me again, but I've got your number, this time. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me fifty times, shame on me.

Still, I find it much easier not to look in the direction of the Gryffindor table for the remainder of the feast, just in case.

Finally, Dumbledore rises and decides to lead those assembled in the Hogwarts School Song. Why, I've no idea. Perhaps he got a bit too much sun over the summer holidays. That would also explain giving Quirrell the Defence job, come to think of it. None of the other staff appear nearly as enthusiastic as he at reviving this old tradition, and Quirrell looks positively petrified, though that is rather the norm, these days.

As the song begins, however, I swear I can hear a few words that are decidedly out of place: "fool" and "suspicious" and "connect us" have no business in our school song. And what's worse is that the voice sounds vaguely familiar. That same sibilant whisper from so long ago. I stop singing—or at least I stop the pretence I made at singing—nearly immediately, in order to listen, but I hear nothing else. Even as the voices all around me die off one by one, until only the Weasley twins are left singing, no other hisses meet my ears.

Usually when Slytherin "spoke" to me, the words were all too clear. I never had to strain to hear them before. I heard him as clearly as if, for lack of a better phrase, he were inside my head. In actuality, he was only inside my head, as in I imagined him, but the point would be that I heard the words as plain as day. So this, I can only hope, is just another hallucination fighting to get out, and having a great deal of trouble due to my potion regimen. Though if occurrences such as these keep up, I may need to visit Madam Pomfrey again.

~*~*~#~*~*~

The break-in at Gringotts would have been most vexing, if I hadn't the foresight to charge Hagrid with retrieving the Philosopher's Stone ahead of time. I never intended for my vault to be the Stone's final resting place, as it were. More of a geological purgatory, if you will, before it was brought here, to Hogwarts. After Nicholas informed me of the attempted burglary at his home over the summer, however, we agreed that steps needed to be taken in order to secure the Stone. Alas, the would-be thief has undoubtedly improved his technique, if he managed to get the better of goblins and still escape. Then again, that could only be because he left my vault empty-handed. Had the Stone actually been stolen, the outcome might have been worse—or much worse, possibly, knowing the Gringotts goblins.

I have since asked my staff to devise their own special protections for the Stone, but ones that I might be able to circumvent, once the guilty party is caught. Nicholas was only too happy to entrust the Stone to my care temporarily, although he and Perenelle will need more Elixir eventually. I cannot keep the thing forever, nor would I wish to. So far, those who have submitted ideas are Hagrid (who is always willing to go above and beyond), Minerva (I do look forward to playing such a thrilling game of chess), Filius (although I must remind him that I am not as agile on a broom as I once was), and of course, Severus.

He was naturally alarmed that I solved his potion riddle so readily. Almost as alarmed as I was to discover that wine made its way into the bottles for the puzzle. Nettle wine is not unduly strong, although I do believe it is a bit more potent a drink than he should be partaking. I have to trust him, however, just as he must trust me, when I assured him that I only solved the riddle with such haste because I have been blessed with an above average intellect.

Taken with all the other protections that are sure to follow from the staff, as well as the enchantments to keep intruders from the castle and grounds, I do believe that the Stone will be quite safe here, in spite of the ease with which I solved Severus' puzzle. Hagrid's three-headed hound is already patrolling the antechamber, Filius' enchanted keys are fluttering about the second chamber as we speak, Minerva's chessmen are standing at attention, and Severus' enchanted fire is poised to spring to life. If only even a few more staff members come through, I can pronounce the Stone safe as safe can be.

The knock at my office door causes me to look up from the calculations I am performing. These are necessary for my own measure of protection for the Stone, but I have reached an impasse at this precise moment. Therefore, this sudden interruption is a more than welcome break, and so I smile as I call, "Come in!"

Quirinus enters, ashen-faced, and sits across from my desk. "D-dementors," he says, without preamble. If he were wearing a normal hat, instead of that turban, I imagine he would have long since taken it off and would be rotating the brim in his hands.

My eyebrows rise. "I beg your pardon?"

"T-to p-pro-t-tect the St-stone," he continues. "My i-d-dea is d-dem-mentors."

I fight to keep a frown from crossing my face at the very suggestion, but it is indeed a struggle. "No, I fear that I cannot allow that, Quirinus," I answer with a shake of my head. "Dementors are far too difficult to control. They would never remain in the chamber to which they were assigned, in favour of roaming the corridors of the castle, to feast on the pupils' emotions and—if they have the chance—souls. I'm afraid that no dementor will cross the threshold of this castle whilst I am Headmaster."

"Right," he says with a nod, rising from his chair

Just then I notice that he takes a quick look at the parchments lying on the desk in front of me. He flushes when he sees that I have observed his attempt at a surreptitious glace. Nevertheless, I smile to show that I do not believe his curiosity is anything approaching a sin.

"B-back to the d-drawing b-board, then, eh?"

At least he hasn't taken the news too badly. As he leaves, closing the door softly behind him, I give him a bracing smile, in spite of the questions circulating in my mind. Why he would have thought dementors a good idea, I could not possibly say—especially since the very idea seems to have frightened him, as well.

To be fair, however, he knew at the outset that he would not have to face them himself. Only I would have that dubious honour. On the other hand, those loathsome creatures pose more than enough danger for adult witches and wizards—as evidenced by Quirinus' pallor. I would hate to think of them preying on small children. And teenagers are prone to enough natural depressions, as it is. Not to mention that winters in Scotland are quite cold enough without their artificial climate adjustments. No, my personal distaste for them aside, dementors are a decidedly bad idea. Not on my watch, thank you.

~*~*~#~*~*~

Following breakfast on Friday, the first year Slytherins and Gryffindors file into the dungeon classroom—some quietly, some loudly, some displaying shyness, others with a swagger. Most of it is exactly the same as every year. Though this year's class is remarkably different, for one very good reason: Draco flashes a smile in my direction, which I acknowledge with a nod, before he takes his seat. It is so good to see him again, to be able to see him again. Though I have known Lucius for most of my life, his son is, sadly, a relative stranger to me now. I have been absent from Draco's life for far too long. He knows of me, naturally, and my friendship with his father, even if no one—to my knowledge—has ever bothered to explain why I am no longer a presence in his life. Or at least why I wasn't, before this year.

Not that I would want them to explain. What would he think if he knew I was banished because I attacked him in a demented haze? It is probably just as well, this way. Now I can get to know him all over again, since I am once again in full control of my faculties. I hope that I am in control of them, that is. After last night's hallucinations at the start-of-term feast, I am not entirely certain. One thing of which I am sure, however, is that I will visit Madam Pomfrey regularly—every day, if I have to—to ensure that I will never hurt Draco again.

Bringing up the rear of the students are the Potter and Weasley spawn. Somehow I am not the least bit surprised. Judging by most of his older brothers, I would expect Ronald Weasley—as my roll tells me—to be a bit lax, and Potter never set much store by punctuality, either. His miniature doppelgänger would be no different, I daresay, as the boy saunters in the door, thoroughly unconcerned that the bell has already rung. During the commotion accompanying both boys' taking their seats, I count the bodies in the room and compare that to the names on my roll. Nineteen of each. So far, so good.

Now, if only each of the nineteen makes some sort of response when I call their names. Or, more accurately, if their fellow students do. Their reactions are the most telling, because they never noticed little Kevin Tipton, did they? Never stepped around him on their way to the student store cupboard. Never acknowledged his "presence" at all. I didn't realize it at the time, but I do now. Somehow, it is always easier to see a hallucination for what it is in hindsight, which is, as they say, 20/20. I only wish that my vision in the moment weren't quite so myopic, but I have become a master of searching for clues to the objective reality in any given situation.

As with my avoidance of mirrors, I have learnt to adjust. To keep my condition as hidden as possible—hidden in plain sight, as it were. Over the years I have become fairly adept at reading others' reactions in order to determine whether my current behaviour might be considered odd. Rather like learning a new vocabulary word from the context in a book, actually, though books tend to be more reliable than people, overall. The technique isn't always fool proof, as the hallucinations themselves tend to skew those context clues in favour of the illusion they are attempting to present. When it comes to my own actions or posture or facial expressions, however, it is a habit that I have come to rely upon heavily.

And so, I take heart from the titter of suppressed laughter in Draco's general direction when I mentioned the new celebrity joining us today. That does, of course, mean that Harry Potter is not a figment of my imagination. Would that he were, perhaps, because if the boy is anything like his father, chaos will soon erupt all around him. James Potter could not abide order during any Potions lesson. Undoubtedly, the subject was nowhere near flashy enough to suit him. Which was why I rarely left the Potions classroom not covered from head to toe in some brew or other, for the entirety of my academic career.

In fact, before this puny Potter gets it in his head that the path to even more notoriety is to misbehave during my lessons, I realise that it might be a good idea to take him down a peg or two. Before his inflated head is in danger of floating him straight out of the dungeon, that is. So, following my usual start-of-term speech—in which I make a point to emphasise that, flashy or not, this is indeed magic—I decide to start the lesson with a little impromptu quiz.

"Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

The boy stares at me blankly, but I am thoroughly unsurprised. His father never set much store by being prepared for lessons, either, trusting in his good looks and charm to carry him through. And it worked, unfortunately. Slughorn always seemed to find his antics amusing, and so he looked the other way more often than not. But he won't get away with such things on my watch.

"I don't know, sir," he finally manages to answer, and though I see another hand in the air nearby, I pay it no mind.

"Tut, tut," I answer with a slight shake. "Fame clearly isn't everything."

The general reaction—including more sniggers from Draco and his friends now, as well—provides proof positive that Potter is indeed present in Potions. Unfortunately, he is not a mere figment of my insidious and continually subversive imagination. How he's managed it, on the other hand, I have no idea. I will not, however, allow him to get away with it. I shall unmask the charlatan, one way or another.

"Let's try again," I continue after a moment. "Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

He has to know the answer to this question. After all, he always managed to locate fresh, sticky, smelly bezoars to chuck at me during Potions lessons at school. My suspicion has always been that he acquired them from the goats in the barn behind the Hog's Head, though I've no concrete proof, of course. He and his friends always managed to cover their tracks exceedingly well.

The same reply comes again, and the boy—boldly, brazenly—never breaks eye contact: "I don't know, sir."

I must admire the ability to lie with a straight face that way. The talent is wholly undiminished, even after all these years. That expertise allowed him to get away with murder—almost literally, in my case—for his previous seven years at Hogwarts, and he obviously intends to keep at it, now he's returned. Of course, it has been a long time. It's possible he's forgotten. Though one would think, if he wished for this charade to succeed—with everyone except me, that is—that he would have at least made the attempt to refresh his memory on the subjects he would soon be studying once more. Lazy as ever. I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose.

"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

By now, it has become a tad difficult to ignore the reactions of the other students—most specifically, the girl with her hand in the air. Especially when she stands, following my next question.

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Of course he knows this answer, as well. He would have made a point to learn all the names of the plant that would have been so dangerous to his friend with the "furry little problem," as he used to term it. I watch his face for any betrayal of that knowledge—and that I myself, of course, have not forgotten, even if a great deal of time has passed—but the only hint I can divine that he knows the game is up is that just the tiniest bit of the defiance seems to have gone out of his voice this time when he answers that he doesn't know. He is exceedingly skilful at deceit. I will give him credit for that.

"I think Hermione does, though," he adds after a beat, with a bit more bravado. "Why don't you try her?"

This earns him a bit of laughter, and though I fear that I shall be unable to unmask the impostor in my midst just now, for the moment, I can at least remind him of who is in charge, here. He may have been able to attack me with impunity when I was a student, but I am a student no longer, and I will not be so easily overpowered now.

"Sit down," I tell the girl, before turning my attention upon Potter once more. Granted, he knows every bit of what I am about to say already, but the display of authority will not go amiss. "For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite." I pause just a fraction of a second before looking around the room at everyone else. "Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"

When they all begin to scramble, searching for parchment and quills, it is all I can do not to smile. Still, I manage to repress the urge, instead raising my voice just enough to be heard, as I add, "And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, Potter."

Take that, you pint-sized pissant. My classroom, my rules.

That firmly established, I divide the group into pairs and start them on the day's task of producing a boil cure. The brew is simple enough and the text's instructions relatively clear. The rationale behind this assignment is not so much successfully making the potion as it is allowing me ample time to observe each student's technique, or lack thereof. As a few first years always come from Muggle backgrounds, this assessment is essential to identify those who may be in need of extra instruction. They are not always the Muggle-borns, of course—in fact, this year, it seems that Goyle and Crabbe may have the distinction of being my worst brewers—though the correlation is undoubtedly high, most years.

I make the rounds of the room, showing a student here and there the proper way to hold the pestle, and not only so that there is less danger of an inadvertent stabbing with a snake fang during the crushing (even if I do have the anti-venom on hand). Over the years I have found that the more effort I put in on this first day, the fewer bad habits pupils tend to pick up in the subsequent years, and I save myself a great deal of frustration in the long run. Better to nit-pick now, before the incorrect techniques become ingrained down the road.

Though there is one pupil in particular whom I have no need to criticise. He is truly his mother's son, and I have just held a ladleful of Draco's horned slugs aloft, to show everyone the perfect way to stew them, when a hissing noise stops me. Brewing accidents are part and parcel of teaching Potions, and I have seen far, far more than my fair share. The elevated total, of course, is owing to the fact that I've imagined a number of them, as well as actually having witnessed the genuine article. This time, the green cloud that greets me—devoid of a single trace of silver—and the students hopping onto their stools to spare their soles from this unfortunate mishap of a brew leaves me in little doubt that this instance belongs in the latter category. As do the blisters now rising on the unhappy brewer's exposed skin.

"Idiot boy!" I practically growl, waving my wand to Vanish the offending liquid, though I fear that there is nothing to be done for the melted mess of cauldron left in its wake. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?"

A pitiful whimper is the only reply I receive, and while that inadvisable addition would explain the cloud of green smoke as well as the potion erupting from the cauldron, never before have I seen the cauldron actually melt from it, prior to today. Either Longbottom is a remarkably bad potion-maker—which I find highly unlikely, as I happen to know both of his parents were quite competent in the subject—or there is more to this matter than meets the eye. One thing is clear, however: Longbottom has told me all that he is able, and so I address the boy standing next to him.

"Take him up to the hospital wing," I snap, before turning to Potter, who is making every effort to look innocent. "You—Potter—why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That's another point you've lost for Gryffindor."

Because I also happen to know that Potter used to sabotage other people's potions—namely mine—to the same end. I wouldn't be surprised at all if he were up to his old tricks and Longbottom is only his latest victim. I shall make a point to keep a closer eye on him from now on. Potter opens his mouth to answer back, of course; indeed, I would expect no less. Though I cannot be certain precisely what causes him to stop, I suspect it has something to do with Weasley's sudden movement behind the cauldron. Perhaps they sabotaged Longbottom's cauldron together. Considering Weasley's older twin brothers, I wouldn't put it past him, either.

It appears that I shall have to keep a closer eye on them both.

* * *

**A/N:** I know that this update is _shamefully_ overdue, and I am really terribly sorry about that. I'm sure some of you imagined I'd completely abandoned this story, and for a while I was afraid that would have to be the case. Up until recently, I've been trapped in an increasingly disheartening job situation, and it just sucked away all my creativity. But now I have a new job (yay!), and after resting up a bit, and getting my head on straight, I think I'm in a good enough place, emotion-wise, to continue Snape's journey. I hope, anyway. Thanks to all of you who were good enough to bear with me through the long absence, and welcome to any new readers, as well. :-)


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